Buthal
by JessamyGriffith
Summary: Every story needs a good, old-fashioned villain. Every legend needs a hero. Every fairy tale has magical curses. Every good adventure story has a man fighting a monster. But villainous monsters, like heroic men, come in many shapes and many sizes, and it is not always easy to tell which is which. (In which here be giants. Twisted fairy tale.)
1. Rebirth

**Title**: Buthal

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)

**Rating:** Teen (for slash, disturbing themes)

**Word count:** 21K +

**Summary:** There's a hero in every children's story, and there's a villain. Every fairy tale has curses, and magic. A good adventure story has a man fighting a monster.

But monsters, like men, come in many shapes and many sizes, and it is not always easy to tell which is which.

**Warnings:** Fairy-tale tone. Mild references to suicide. Pseudo-cannibalism, if you consider giants as being other than human. Descriptions of violence, non-explicit torture.

**Author's notes:** Written for the Spook Me! Multi-fandom ficathonRandom

Prompt: **Giants (!)  
**

So, my friend convinced me to try this ficathon, and being cocky, I told the admins to just give me any creature prompt from the list. Oh. My. God. Never do that. This was the hardest thing I've written yet.

There's large chunks of exposition and not too much forward action the first chapter. Also, verse and backstory, but bear with me. I think you'll be surprised. Also the style isn't very immediate, being a fairy tale, so there's that too.

* * *

**The Cottage**

A figure crouches under of the window of the cottage in the lee of a rhododendron. Damned knees and hips - they are aching from holding this position so long. The stranger stifles a sneeze, and rubs the shape of the key hidden in a pocket. Getting too old for this kind of snooping.

It has taken years. A life that spiralled down through joblessness, a failed marriage, but now is back on track. It's not an obsession - that sounds ugly. More like, a compulsion to find the truth. There are rumours about the owner of this cottage, but unsettling personalities are so often passed off as quirks of eccentricity in the countryside. Now the investigator has followed a lead to this isolated cottage in Wales, hopefully to find one Ian Moore. Moore is not all he seems.

Moore is an enigma. Under his pseudonym he has published a variety of books - horror fairy tales for adults, an anthology of folk tales, several murder mysteries. He's also the author of a popular trilogy of children's stories, prompting reviewers to dub him 'The Storyteller.' No one knows what he looks like - he works through agents for his sales, never attending book-signings or promotional events. His identity is a closely-kept secret, one that the investigator is about to uncover. Gloved fingers tuck under arms and the hidden figure listens.

"All you had to do was keep an eye on Dóchas for ten minutes while I showered and changed! Now look at the state of her." The voice breaks with annoyance.

A second voice replies indistinctly in an excusing tone. A high-pitched voice, a small girl's overrides the other's.

"Not his fault, I did it myself!"

Hands clench into fists. Oh, that was a surprise. A child?

"So, please explain, Dóchas. Why did I find you lying in the begonias, wiggling your bum in the muddy flowerbed and trying to heap dirt on yourself?" The first voice is strained, half-way between anger and amusement.

There's a mumble.

"What was that? I didn't hear you."

"I accidentally hurt Mr. Heckle. His head just came off."

"Mr. Heckle's gone?" the other asks.

A put-upon sigh is heaved. "And - so you decided to bury yourself, and not Mr. Heckle - why?"

"I was bad. All his insides, all over my hands and shirt," the little voices sings. "You shouldn't pull animals apart so they don't work any more. So I had to go under the plants. S'what we do, isn't it? When we're bad?" The little girl sounds nervous, but underlying is a tone of unrepentant mischief.

Under the window, the listener's jaw tightens. That... that sounded off. Hopefully it isn't what it sounds like. But if it is, then some of the rumours... But, a child! The eavesdropper feels ill.

There is silence, and the first voice groans. "Dóchas..."

The second voice is chuckling, the little girl's giggles rising in counterpoint, and the other snaps, "Oh, stop it! I know you'll say she takes after me, but that rubbish sense of humour is all yours."

"She looked like a grubby little Ophelia lying in the mud, with the wreck of the begonias strewn around her," the second voice says. "There's no real harm done. She was only playing."

The other sighs. "Nice way to play. Poor Mr. Heckle. Fine, whatever. We need to get going, the reservation is for eight o'clock, and I'm starving. Come on, sweetling, we've got to clean you up for your birthday dinner."

"Buthal, why do we have birthdays?" Dóchas's voice is fading as she is taken off.

The listener hears the reply faintly "To celebrate many returns of the day, Dóchas."

After about twenty minutes the Volvo estate car pulls out. The figure stands, joints popping. Unlocking the back door, a brightly-painted, cluttered kitchen beckons. There are no bills visible to give away any clue of the occupant's name. Opening the fridge, the stranger gasps and shuts it, opens it again. A rabbit stares with milky eyes through blood-stained plastic wrap. The intruder prods it - ugh. It looks half-crushed, the belly sagging as if its guts are missing. A mobile phone is fished from a pocket, a picture snapped.

The kitchen table is a jumble of school-books, pencils, coloured paper - all the miscellanea of a young child's learning. A text is nudged to reveal at the title, and several plastic beads fall to the floor. Biology? Hm. Home education? The thought of a little girl reared in this strange isolation provokes a shudder.

The bookshelves in the hall have an eclectic collection of biographies of serial killers, children's books and novels. The intruder teases one free and flips through it. It's an author's advance proof copy for one of Ian Moore's crime thrillers.

In a nook off the living room is the goal - the battered oak desk is covered with notes and books. A saucer with crumbs and a half-eaten Jaffa cake rests next to a mug. The sleek computer wakes to a touch, but asks for a password. Damn. Short of stealing it, there's no way to access its information in time. There's a framed picture standing on the desk - a solemn little girl of about four or five, with dark eyes and sleek black hair escaping from pink hair slides. Several more pictures are snapped. The reflection in the glass of the frame shows a discontented face, lines from nose to mouth marring skin, hair gone grey too soon. Well. Many years have passed since the search was started. Time to get on with finishing it.

Sitting in the desk chair, the intruder hurriedly flips through the mess - historical tomes, battered copies of children's books. Research for Moore's next novel? A faded original Grimm's Fairy tales has a bookmark next to the title page, the top torn away, leaving only the spiky script, '- where my heart is, o my brother.' Odd. The investigator lifts a copy of Malory's Le Morte d'Artur that is thick with Post-its and frowns at what's revealed underneath. A page, very old and crumbling at the edges. Medieval? It appears to be old English or something, verses written on vellum.

The investigator lifts it with care. Beneath is a lined paper with notes in a strong hand - a translation in modern English. The vellum is laid beside it, more pictures are taken. The poem is scanned quickly, then again more slowly. What in the world -? Eyes darting over the desk, the notebook reveals that it has been used as - as a journal? No. The investigator riffles the pages. This looks like a first draft of a story. _Yes._ Silence breathes through the house. The time is checked, then a 'ha!' of satisfaction is expelled. The desk lamp is switched on, the Morte d'Artur opened with the notebook half-covering its leaves.

The stranger reads.

* * *

_Buthal's Lament - (from the original verse)_

_From far Eire we Fomorians did come,_

_Wild our hearts and weirding_

_Cracking from chasm, the Causeway arose to convey_

_But woe - o woe! Whither hath my brethren wended?_

_._

_Castles in Cymru we crafted_

_Fresh the feasting of fields and flesh_

_Strong strode we, our cloak of chaos covering_

_Woe, o woe - where hath my people wandered?_

* * *

_**-not again-**_

The darkness lightens, the weight lifts and he crests, the earth rolling away from him. Gasping, he lifts an arm to paw dirt from his open eyes, tears and filthy fingers smearing dark streaks across his vision. He coughs, retches and rolls over, snapping free of roots that are wound round his body like clutching hands. He hunches, and vomits black bile that steams in the chill air. His arms shake, holding his body up, and he looks at his filthy hands, the frail twigs of wrists. Small, so small. He could feel the ebbing of his strength as the elemental magic which supported him magic was leached from the soil over the centuries, but this is the worst yet.

His stomach knots again, twisting with a different pain. His mind is growing dim, his ancient memories fogging under need. He is shivering in the early morning breeze. A small rabbit hops close, nose twitching, insensible to his scent, covered in earth as he is. Before thought can take hold his legs propel him in a dive for the thing, scraping his stomach and legs and arms on sharp rocks. The young coney kicks in his grasp, its thin, despairing squeal cut short as he bites, thin fingers digging into soft fur, blunt teeth tearing until - ah. The metallic taste floods his mouth and he swallows, bites again, chews. He wrenches, arms shaking, and a foreleg flies away, blood spattering. He presses his face to the hole, tongue searching for the core of the animal. Grunting, he pokes a finger into the wounds, but he cannot reach the heart. The meat is not satisfying, There is still a horrible emptiness within.

It is not enough.

With a cry, he drops the limp body and covers his face. He sobs, shoulders heaving until his voice rises in a crescendo - the roar of a giant transmuted into a child's scream of rage and sorrow.

That is how Buthal is found alone in the wilderness by two trekkers - naked, speechless, wild blue eyes peering out from a mask of dirt and blood.

* * *

_Ripe, the rich soil rewarded_

_'Till tragic the doom descended_

_The meat of man tasted by Buthal, ah! Terrible Buthal._

_So, so served were we - sanguine the stain spread_

_._

_Sweet the suckling babes we snapped and swallowed_

_Sweet the shrieks of men and maids sucked dry as eggshells,_

_Bold and blind we grew great and giant, bloated_

_Low, o low! Strength and pride to be struck down!_

* * *

Much is made of the little boy found on the moors. No trace can be found of his parents, nothing is known of how long he was alone. Appearing as if from the earth itself, as the hikers said. No memories, no understanding of English. Scans determine nothing - no brain abnormalities, no apparent injuries.

'Child of Nature,' the press dub him, and he is a two-week marvel. Nothing is said of the rabbit. No news agency mentions how when the female hiker bent to pick him up, he'd snarled open mouthed, pink saliva drooling, and lunged to clamp hands and teeth around her wrist, drawing blood and a shriek from the young woman.

And oh, it is right, the warmth appeasing some of his hunger. And yet Buthal feels empty, hollowness throbbing just under his breastbone. The blood in his stomach is a heavy weight pulling him down.

He is adopted by a sympathetic older couple who had given up on having another child. He gains a human name and a sibling who treats him with equal parts wariness and affection.

Buthal is an odd child, and it sets him apart. He looks normal. Only he knows his true age is measured in millennia, though if one looked at his weak and fragile child-body, a boy of about five or six, perhaps seven would be seen. He is small - for his age. When he is ready, he goes to school.

It does not go well. When he is sent home for the fifth time with clothes torn and face bruised, his human-mother sighs. Buthal's shoulders bow in resentment. This is not how his life should be, the fights are not his fault, and always there is the ache in his chest and the hunger.

* * *

**How King Artur and his wizards did capture and subdue the giant Buthal the Terrible - (from Malory)**

**In the time whence the giants first did come unto Britain they lived peaceably, raising their keeps by wild magic from earth and stone. Dwelt they in this new land much as man did, eating of the earth's providence in game, honey and fruit...**

**But in lust for more power, a giant it was that first tasted the flesh of man, he who was known as Buthal the Red. Lesser he thought humans, as fodder he saw them, and so he ate, capturing a fair lady alone as she gathered herbs and rending her most horribly. Upon finishing his dread repast, he did grow in size and power, and became known as Buthal the Terrible. Jealously seeing this, his brethren did follow suit and the humans fled before them. Grown monstrous, they became greedy and thoughtless, and the more they ate, the stronger they became. They then began to kill and consume whomsoever they found, men, women and children alike, outraging all in the land against their race. Prideful and strong were the giants, yet arrogance was to be their downfall, for the giants did underestimate the might of men and their magic. Thus was the war against giants begun...**

* * *

His human-sibling visits his room, sitting on the end of his bed in the dark. "Biting, again? Really? Bloodthirsty, aren't you." It is not a question.

Buthal flexes his hands, large on his thin arms. They say he will grow into them, like a puppy. He wants to scream that his hands are not meant to be this small, that they are meant to be large enough to cup a man's head, crush boulders, wield great weapons. But he is only a youngling, too weak to survive on his own, and his race is cursed and wasting away. "I can't help it."

The human looks at him with knowing eyes. "You can't keep doing this. It's not good. It's like there's a fight everyday, and if it's not you, it's about you."

"I need -" Buthal's voice breaks off. His chest hurts. "Something. It's out there." How can he explain that his very being engenders chaos? He is nature itself, he is elemental. Turmoil will always find him, and aside from the pain caused when the violence is directed against his frail frame with ignorant fists, he likes it. It comforts him. He draws his legs up, wraps his arms around them and buries his head against his knees.

His sibling doesn't question this, ever practical. "If you want to survive long enough to find whatever you are looking for, you need to get along better in the world. Just be like everyone else."

Buthal's voice is muffled. "I can't."

"Look, you think I don't get it? Being different? I know about all about pretending. Trying to be like the others at my school." The human's voice attempts a cool tone, wavers instead. "I know I'm not like them, because of the things I - never mind. But I don't go out of my way to rub it in their faces, and I don't put out an open invitation for them to pound mine. It only took me one time to learn that."

Buthal says nothing, but the quality of the silence between the two suggests listening.

"Just... make-believe. Watch others. Copy how they act, I know you can do that. It'll help, really. You'll see. And for God's sake, stop biting people, you little cannibal." The voice over his bowed head is exasperated but kind.

He still doesn't look up. The taste of blood, the feel of flesh parting under teeth is a pleasure, sating some of the hunger. It is a torment as well, for each drop he pulls inside is a lead pellet, weighing him down. It frightens him, the feeling that the earth itself is pulling at his ankles as though to swallow him. He doesn't want to go below. But the hunger is there, always. It's his curse.

His human-sibling sighs and gets up, resting a hand on his bowed head. "Try, for me, okay? I don't like to see you like this. It'll get better. Promise."

Buthal closes his eyes. "Yes." It won't get better. But he'll try, because this human asked it of him with kindness instead of hatred or anger.

When he is man grown, Buthal thinks back on that exchange between him and his human-sibling with resentment. He hadn't meant to ever like a human, much less feel the warmth of kinship. It is antithetical for one such as him to love. But it was one of their closest moments. Buthal treasures it, now that they have grown older and more distant in their relationship.

* * *

Buthal adapts. Strange events, fights and accidents still surround him, but he does not go out of his way to spur them on. Instead, he is accounted a somewhat unlucky child.

_'He does does try so hard. A bit strange, but can one be surprised, considering his start in life? The poor little thing.'_

When he overhears that, he laughs until the tears run down, stuffing a fist in his mouth to muffle the hysterical sound, teeth creasing skin. If only they knew, oh, if only.

* * *

**...Word was brought to King Artur of Buthal's great crime, and the king was much grieved for the lady and wroth against Buthal. He declared war, causing men to hunt out the giants and slay them with steel and fire. Many a man did lose his life, it is true, yet many giants and giantesses fell to man's swords...**

**Against the greatest giant, Buthal, did Artur himself ride. His most skilled knights and also his trusted magicians and advisers girded themselves and mounted their fleetest horses, swearing vengeance dire against Buthal for his crimes...**

**...The giant fought with ferocious strength, catching up a few unfortunates, steeds and all, and dashing them down. With ropes and nets did they finally snare and trip the beast. Buthal fell with a mighty crash, and cried out, O my brothers, O my sisters, come you here, Buthal be taken! Yet none came to his call.**

**And Artur stepped forth, and said unto Buthal, There be none to help thee, giant, for thy brethren art slain, and what few remain fly before us. Buthal howled in grief and fury and struggled, but to no avail, for he was sore weakened from the litter of wounds covering his body... He did denounce Artur with many vile oaths for the slaughter of his kind, and the faces of the knights 'round him grew grim and full of anger.**

* * *

The dreams are what prompt his human-parents to take him to psychologists and doctors for consultations. He wakes moaning, cheeks wet, thrashing night after night.

In one dream, men surround him, hatred twisting their faces, pikes stabbing. For what crime? It is no crime to defend oneself, one's castle, a daughter. He falls. A shaggy-haired man places the tip of his sword over his heart. "For my brothers, monster," he says, and thrusts the blade deep.

In another, he is fighting, wrestling a human, sinews straining, lips drawn back, and then he is falling, the howl of defeat torn from his lips as the cliff walls whip by.

In the dream that hurts his heart most, a beautiful woman cradles his severed head. She weeps. "O my brother, o! My heart be cleft in twain." Without lungs or air, he yet speaks to her, urging her to go home, to live. In vain he pleads - she slips away under. His head goes silent and he is carried home to be buried in the centre of what he now understands will become London.

(Years later, the pull of that great city is such he cannot resist - despite the clogging effect of so much humanity it feels like the only home he has ever been in. No matter where he goes under the earth, when he is above ground he eventually returns there.)

In some dreams Buthal holds a copper mirror up with six-fingered hands and sees unearthly beauty. In others he has the head of a goat and the grass he feeds upon is crimson, dripping from his jaws. In one he has a single eye and crushes men in his hands before the world goes burning dark and he wakes screaming.

The doctors nod, expressions shuttered as he describes his many deaths, the anger and grief that wind through his sleeping mind. But he knows better than to talk of the true dreams, the ones that would set him apart completely. He does not want to be locked away.

Buthal can never tell them the best dream, the dream of his first taste of blood, how the young girl writhes and screams in his grasp. The heady sense of power it gives him in his dreams, the hunger growing apace with his stature. How the bones crackle between teeth as he sucks at the rich marrow. How smooth the texture of eye-jelly sucked free feels against his tongue. How his mouth waters even now at the memory.

He pretends that the doctors help him, and begins to speak of more innocuous dreams. School. Adventure. Flying. He hides the pills - the sleep they give him is too much like the time beneath, trapping him in a helpless stupor.

Those dreams are the worst - the blackness, the grit of dirt against his eyes, the touch of worms and beetles as they burrow next to his skin, the crushing pressure of earth compressing his chest and filling his nostrils until he is smothering for air. He never sleeps in the between-times - he knows this. He wakes sweating after those dreams, eyes open and dry, unable to catch his breath.

He's had quite enough of that, enough for a thousand lifetimes. He fears it like nothing else, and to embrace the dark is folly, even when it awaits with the mass of inevitability.

He is not foolish any more.

* * *

**...Yet Artur held up his hand... I must ask thee, Giant, said he, if thou wouldst treat with us. Thy kindred slaughter and feast upon us like cattle. Yet once we dwelt in harmony, so I grant thou this final chance to halt thy abhorrent acts and eat no more of the flesh of man. Whilst thou ally with us? We would not be your enemies.**

**Buthal laughed until the rocks trembled and the hills did echo with his mockery. Make alliance with man? said he. Ally with insects, belike. How be it possible, how dost one raise a worm to be an equal?**

**The ropes did groan as Buthal's anger grew and his muscles swelled with it, and the blood ran freely from his many wounds until the earth 'neath him steamed. Said Buthal in reply, The power I hath, I did gain from blood of man, it be mine own now and forever more will I hunger for it... Never willst there be accord betwixt your people and mine, never will I submit, never! Rather would I die a thousand deaths, said Buthal unto Artur, and the giant's smile was terrible to behold.**

**At Buthal's answer did Artur's face grow grim and he said unto Buthal, So be it. A thousand deaths be thy wish, then willst we accommodate it, Giant. And he called forth Menw the shifter of shapes and Myrddin the wizard, and bade them lay their magics upon Buthal. And the two paced a circle about the enmeshed Buthal, tracing their sigils upon the air, earth and upon Buthal's very skin. And thus Myrddin the great spell spake:**

**By blood and by breath and bone we bind**

**A human's heart for thine**

**Hunt for thy true heart, o Buthal**

**No hand to help or guide thy steps**

**Buthal! Buthal! we name and curse ye.**

* * *

Buthal grows up, grows lost, always with the ache in his chest and grinding in his belly driving him half-mad. He finds the perfect calling - work where violence and its aftermath surrounds and soothes him, and it creeps into that hollow in his chest, filling it just a little.

His natural chaos follows him always like a cloak of dark mist. Buthal breathes it in, and smiles. He follows the teachings of his human-sibling, wears the mask of normality, of morality. He sees good people die, and bad people live, but should that matter to him? None of them held his heart.

He moves among the humans, searching. It is nigh-intolerable, biding his time until he finds that for which he aches. The world he knew has moved on. There are too many roads, there is too much settlement. The press of humanity is smothering the old magic of the earth with every passing year. No wonder his race has grown so small. No wonder he is so weak.

Starving does not help, yet he must abstain, as long as possible until he finds the object of his search. But in despair of ever finding it amongst the millions of people on earth, when the hunger grows too great, Buthal finds himself secretly stealing slips of flesh from the bodies that come to him through his work. Every piece of cold meat he ingests, every drop of blood makes him sluggish. His footsteps fall heavier, even as he grows a little stronger.

Once, he thinks, he was good. Or at the very least unconscious of good or bad, as any element of nature is. Once. But that was a long time ago.

Now there is only the curse. He loathes the memory, sees the dark wyrd he has wrought.

He hates what the memory of what he once was, almost as much as what he has become.

He wears his human face, until it is a well-nigh perfect mask.

But he does not forget.

* * *

**Avarice insatiable in life, thou stole ours**

**So eternal aching for flesh is thine**

**Ever hollow and hungry, yet unappeased**

**Giant grow thee, great willst thou fall**

**Buthal! Buthal! we knowest thou.**

**.**

**Blood be thy birthright and bane**

**Potent the provisions, power provides pain**

**Tainted will the provender weigh down and grow thee**

**Kills ye, slows ye and drags you down**

**Buthal! Buthal we curse thee.**

**.  
**

**And as they spake, Buthal's breath grew short and his limbs heavy, his eyes open and staring. With horror saw he the silver dagger Menw held and felt the pain as his chest was opened and his great heart pulled free. Yet he did not die, for the magic held him in its grasp. Before his face they held a tiny piece of flesh, the puny heart heart of a man. Menw thrust it within Buthal's chest and the flesh knit over it. As the heart began to beat as feeble and fluttering as the heart of a bird, Buthal cried out, O! O, it cannot sustain me, have mercy, give me back my heart!**

**Yet inexorably did the wizards speak their dread spell... And as they spoke the earth began to rise up to cover him.**

**.  
**

**If in desirous greed thy kind grow too potent and gross**

**Straining, the prop of thy pledged human heart does perish**

**Starving, the search for thy heart can sustain thee, but sickly**

**In agony untold, strength and size dwindling**

**Buthal! Buthal! Anathema undying!**

* * *

The futility of his quest makes him want to howl. Cursed, his hunger is what will bring him down. Starving, he lives longer to search. Satiated, he grows in weight and power until his human heart bursts.

Either way, he has returned in failure to the living death under the ground, over and over and _over_ and -

No. He will fight this. He is not ready to follow his brethren under, most of whom have been subsumed back into the elements that spawned them as they failed their quests time after time until their strength was spent.

The task is nigh impossible. Thus, the curse - Buthal's Bane.

Still. His true death can wait a while longer, he will not give up. Perhaps, this time, he will succeed.

He searches for the one that can end this.

* * *

**Failing thy fate, laid under loam livest thou**

**But not in death nor sleep rest thee**

**Breathless and awake as years pass**

**Till the host of thy heart comes again**

**Buthal, dread Buthal, we curse thee.**

**.  
**

**Interminable thy quest take thou, decrepit and dwindling**

**Till the twain of temperament meet and find their hearts**

**And betwixt two, trust and truth be returned**

**Man to monster, monster to man**

**Buthal, o Buthal! accursed be thy race and thou!**

**And with a final cry did the earth rise and smother Buthal's final cry as he went under, eyes open and breath clogged. And thus was Red Buthal, known as Buthal the Terrible bound and all his race with him.**

* * *

"That's it then? We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat?"

Pale blue eyes meet dark blue, and one winks. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

* * *

_**-at last-**_

He meets the other, the one. The one with his heart. He suppresses his first impulse, to leap upon the man, to tear him open and pull his own heart free, to eat it still beating with the man's blood a sweet slick against lips - but no, that can't be right, he knows that can't be right. His people were punished, cursed for such crimes.

He has found his heart. _Keep it safe._ For the first time in a thousand years, he feels something like hope.

He keeps the man close by, and really, it is a comfort and a solace. The man isn't much different from himself - a loner, cut off from the normal run of humanity. They have that in common, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

John kills a man their first night together with no show of remorse, and Sherlock smiles when John jokes about it. They giggle like schoolboys in the flashing blue lights of the crime scene. How perfect, how ironic that one monster has found another, and that he holds his heart in his human cradle of ribs and slippery meat.

The ache in Buthal's chest is mostly quiet, now.

They move in together. John awakens with choking whimpers sometimes, but this is no surprise to his flatmate. After all, John was a doctor and a soldier, and soldiers cannot encompass all the horrors they see - in the night their minds crack and the terror oozes free. Sherlock stays awake days on end, warding off sleep as though it were a demon come to snatch his soul. Some nights John comes downstairs after a nightmare and Sherlock will be lying awake on the couch like an effigy. Sometimes John joins him, sitting in companionable silence. Other nights John awakens to the sound of a violin, Sherlock playing strange and eerie melodies that sound like wind over rock and moor, and which John's chest hurts to hear it.

Their work brings them a surfeit of flesh. He traces their cold skin, the wounds, so fragile, these humans. It is only when he is alone that he will lick his finger afterwards. It sustains him, as much as the wildness that swirls around him constantly sustains him like air. If his step is a little heavier after another bloody body is laid before him, if his teeth seem whiter or sharper, if he appears to walk taller - well. He can play human. People die, and he can't find it in him to care much, only cares that his heart-bearer lives, is protected. But he feigns caring well. He can play human.

But he is not that, not ever.

When he wakes, he rises from his bed to look into the mirror. He sees a human. Diminished, revolting, not the bright and terrible thing he once was. He hates this face, hates it, hate. His teeth dig into his lip until the taste of iron floods his mouth. He raises a thumb and covers his reflected eye in the mirror. He smiles, bloody-mouthed and Cyclopean.

There. That's better.

* * *

_Mighty the magic born of the blood of man_

_Loathing, the land turned against us_

_Power must be paid, and so profaned we_

_Dire, dire the swords drank deep as dwindling we fell_

_._

_Of my own story I tell you, of my sisters and brothers_

_My name is Buthal - once I touched clouds and laughed_

_Vengeance vile wrought unremitting, and my people vanish_

_Woe, o woe! Will I ever walk free?_

* * *

**The Cottage**

The figure in the desk chair twitches as a creak is heard, head jerking up. Listens.

Nothing. Just the sounds of the old cottage settling as the night drew in. A glance at the time on the phone showed that not much time had passed. The intruder sat back, rolling a neck gone stiff from bending over notebook and papers.

There's still time, and other notebooks to snoop through.

* * *

**Notes:** Yes, it's a story in a story! With back story! AND POETRY. I am sorry.

Also, that there wasn't much action this chapter. Next chapter has 100% less backstory and verse, and more forward movement. What is life with giants?

Also also, the story is done, I am just wrangling it into slowly.


	2. Deaths

**The Cottage**

In the cottage, the intruder picks up the second notebook. Unexpected. What had looked like a strange fairy tale for adults had suddenly turned into - what?

The names of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are very, very well-known to the intruder. The tone is half-nightmare, half biography, with notes referencing Malory and the old English verse. It's bizarre.

The intruder wonders what further tidbits about Sherlock and John can be gleaned.

The gloved finger trails down the page, and turns it.

* * *

The first crack in the close bond John and Sherlock have occurs when a madman decides he wants to play a game. Moriarty doesn't want to be caught, he wants to be distracted. Moriarty is the calm at the centre of a vortex of violence and deceit. Moriarty is a challenge, a puzzle like no other, and Sherlock just can't help himself.

John is furious with Sherlock. "There are actual human lives at stake! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock is genuinely puzzled by this question of caring about unknown people. John cannot stand Sherlock's detachment, and Sherlock sneers at John's naivete.

Sherlock is not a hero. Heroes don't exist.

Well, not in these modern times. Heroes were better known for slaying giants, in other times. The parallel will come later.

They have a bad moment when they encounter the Golem. But the Golem is only human, pituitary abnormality aside, and John throws himself against him as the assassin is throttling Sherlock. He is thrown off, hitting the floor with a grunt of pain. The Golem flees, all of Sherlock's shots going wild in the strobing lights within the planetarium. The detective is left thwarted, punching the floor in frustration. Behind, the body of Professor Cairns is a broken doll with staring eyes, discarded and unimportant.

It is easy for Sherlock not to care - to him it is a weakness. Why should he pretend when there's somebody so interesting and ready to play? His stance is a wilful blindness that Moriarty exploits ruthlessly.

He takes John.

"I can stop John Watson, too... stop his heart." John's voice breaks and Sherlock whirls in panic.

On this, their first meeting in the flesh, there is a sense of occasion. There should be. It is a family reunion.

Jim Moriarty enters the pool room, and the tiles creak underfoot.

_(Dóiteán, o my brother, what do you here?)_

How had Buthal been so blind, how had he not understood? Moriarty was clever, Moriarty was powerful, Moriarty washed in the blood of innocent humans without regard. Moriarty was chaos incarnate, like a giant.

Like himself.

Worse, Moriarty knows his weakness.

Moriarty's eyes on Sherlock are avaricious, hungry. "I don't like getting my hands dirty," he says, _(liar, o lies! I see you for what you are!)_ "I'm a specialist, like you." _(No, not alike, my heart is with me and you, Dóiteán, you are lost.)_ "So I'm going to give you a little advice: Back off."

No one ever gets to Jim, and if he continues down his dark path with mouth and hands dripping blood of innocents, no one ever will. He is as bright as a comet, as destructive, as short-lived.

John's heart is in his throat, Sherlock's blindness lifted. He cares now, oh he cares. "People will die."

"That's what people do!" roars Moriarty, and the room echoes with the power, utter belief in his strength, utter madness.

John leaps to save Sherlock, but it does no good. Sherlock won't leave John, and John can't protect Sherlock. Moriarty laughs, calls John a pet (so weak, so loyal, so useless), and the targeting lights play over Sherlock like red fireflies.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," Moriarty promises, and John shudders at the look in Sherlock's eyes.

"I have been reliably informed I don't have one," says Sherlock, and Moriarty only smiles.

The moment teeters on a fulcrum. If they all die now, only one of them is all too human to come back from that darkness. Moriarty is on the brink - his insanity and blood-debt may ensure he never wakes again. He will dissolve into the earth, unfulfilled.

_(O my brother, it pains me to see you thus. How came you to this pass?)_

To kill his mad brother before his flesh-toll rises high enough to pull him under... But if Sherlock and John die together, in one accord, perhaps, perhaps -

It might end.

In complete understanding, John nods and Sherlock raises the gun to sight at the explosives. They trust each other in this. It might be enough.

The entirely inappropriate ringtone shatters the tension and Moriarty snarls threats at the unknown caller, teeth white between drawn-back lips. Make shoes from someone's skin? It should be funny.

Buthal watches his giant-brother's black eyes, feels the twist of hunger in his own belly. There is nothing to laugh at here.

The night ends with no giants being slain. At least there's that.

* * *

A package arrives some time later at Baker Street. Within is a copy of 'Jack the Giant Killer," a tiny tissue sample, and an unsigned note in a spiky script. It reads, 'I'm giving you just a teensy taste of what you are missing out here in the big, bad world. Go on, you know you want to. It hurts me to see you in that pathetic state, o my brother.'

Sherlock lays the objects out on the kitchen table and stares at them, fingers steepled.

John's face sets like stone when he sees the package.

"It's a sick joke. I mean, I know Jack is a nickname for John. So if he wants to imply... you know, I don't want to know what he's trying to say."

Sherlock's eyes are intent. "That you are are a killer? Of foolish giants?"

"I'd be more than happy to kill him. I'd rest easier,' says John flatly. He burns the book and paper and insists the tissue be turned over to the police, over Sherlock's protests.

* * *

Buthal dreams of his sister Réalta, smiling and strong, hair and eyes shining in his memories. He cries out with joy and moves to embrace her. But in his arms, she begins to shrink, growing feeble, skin sagging, eyes dulling as her strength drains away. She slips from his grasp and falls, tiny, starved. Her hair falls away, blackened straw on frosted grass, and her expression is resigned, defeated, beyond despair. He falls to his knees, reaching for her but before his eyes her body turns dark and dissolving in his arms. He shouts, cries for her to fight, keep going, but she is gone - not under. Just - gone, her elements taken back into the earth. Beyond hope, beyond striving, her cursed life is ended. She gave up the will to continue. She will not return.

Dead.

He wakes and scrubs his salt-stained face. He does not want to be the death of even one more of his people. Even insane Dóiteán deserves better, for all that he threatens Buthal's heart until it squeezes in terror.

His race dies, and it is his fault, his taint that kills them by degrees. Almost never does he meet his brethren when he's not-below. Perhaps they avoid him, and this wrenches at him.

So few, so few left.

* * *

The events at Baskerville cause a rift between John and Sherlock that aches. Sherlock's drug-induced panic attack is bad, and the way he thrusts away John's friendship erodes John's sympathy. Sherlock's seeming apology helps, until he gives John a cup of coffee and uses him as a test subject for the same drug, leaving John shuddering in a cage with hallucinations stalking him. It ends well enough, case solved. Never mind that the drug wasn't in the coffee, it was in the laboratory room with the hissing pipes and warnings. But Sherlock thought the drug was in the sugar, and he'd given the poison to John with a smile, thinking it wouldn't matter. John is a paragon of normality, after all.

But now there is an edge of distrust between them. Sherlock hadn't meant for that to happen, heedless as always of the consequences of his behaviour.

He doesn't apologise. John seems to forgive him. Neither say the words.

It was only a cup of coffee, after all.

But the space around Buthal's heart seems larger, his human heart bruised.

* * *

Ah, the Woman. Buthal's heart throbs in a strange hunger. Irene Adler is so like his sisters, both before the curse and after. She burns brightly, a presence scarcely contained by her delicious-looking skin. So sharp and clever, and the dart of her tongue over the scarlet slash of her mouth seems as if she is collecting wayward blood drops from a feast. A real man-eater, though by her own words she prefers the flesh of females. He feels faintly envious of that, and supposes her clients willingly offer her up blood as well as other liquids. What a fine repast. What a giantess she would have been, powerful and fierce.

Buthal wonders if it is due to the passage of time or finally finding his heart that he feels softened towards humans. Terrible to care, he really shouldn't, but there it is. More weakness.

He likes her, in spite of himself. He savours the anarchy she brings into his life, for he thrives on chaos. It is too bad for her that, like a giant, her hungers brought her to ruination.

He regrets her, for the necessary secrets he now carries from his heart bearer, causing the chasm in his chest to ache and grow even more. It makes his stomach throb, the old flesh-hunger growing again. It is a set-back, forcing him to regress to old habits.

He is both sorry and not sorry for her absence from his life.

* * *

A second package arrives at Baker Street. There's no sender, but the name is unnecessary. They know who it is from. It contains a Finnish children's book of fairy tales, with a story bookmarked. Sherlock translates online, John looking over his shoulder.

"'The Giant Who Had No Heart in His Body,'" says Sherlock slowly. John's lips compress into a thin line.

"Now he's come down to simple mockery? I mean, I know you told him... " John pauses. Neither of them like to bring up the pool incident. "You said you'd been told you don't have one. But this - Sherlock, he's playing with you. With us."

Sherlock is quiet. The book is opened next to him, and his fingers trace over an illustration in the story.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John's voice rises. "He's dangerous. Just take the damned book and... I don't know. Throw it out, give it to the police, give it to Mycroft, even! Just... just don't. Don't play his games, don't do this."

Sherlock murmurs, "Fairy tales again. Giants."

"Sherlock, why can't you... God, it's like I'm talking to myself. You cannot afford to rise to his bait and run off half-cocked, you're going to get yourself killed! You'll die and then what -" John breaks off, red-faced. "Fine. I'll take care of it." He grabs the book from under Sherlock's hand, the page tearing from under Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock scowls at him.

"You're damaging evidence."

"Like you ever give a toss, when it's you trampling all over it," John snaps back. He smooths the crumpled page. He pauses, mouth twisting.

"What is it?"

John looks at the illustration. "It's... well, it's a sleeping giant. Different from the usual version of the story. Of course, you've probably deleted fairy tales." A snort is his answer to this jab. "In the original, the two brothers rescuing the lady just squeeze the egg the giant's heart is in, and he dies. But in this variation..."

Sherlock leans back, eyes piercing. "Well?"

John returns his look steadily. "The giant promises to be good. But the egg with his heart is broken anyway, and a hill rises where the giant falls."

Sherlock snorts. "The anthropomorphising of naturally-occurring features in nature is hardly uncommon."

"Fine. Laugh if you want. But I'm giving this to Lestrade." John reaches over and plucks up the bookmark, looks at it and marks the story, closing the book firmly. Sherlock's hands are pressed together and touching his lips in his favorite thinking pose, John doesn't want to push the issue any more. They have both read the inscription on the bookmark.

_You will never keep him. I know where my heart is, o my brother._

Neither mention it again.

* * *

How? How? how how how HOW?

Buthal is weakening. He does not wish to eat, though the cull of dead flesh from the pathologist's collection stocks their fridge and tempts him. Dining will revive and make him stronger, but he will grow greater, weightier, and his human heart will struggle. Too much, and someone will notice. Won't do to make a splash in the human world, not like his Dóiteán.

Amazing that they pass for human at all, really. They are wolves in people-skin.

Dieting - _starving _- has never seemed more odious. Buthal treads a fine line, eating tiny nips of chilled rubbery flesh when no one is around, pulling discarded bandages from the bin and pressing his tongue to dried brown smears.

Buthal is together with his heart bearer. But how will the curse be broken? If it is meant for Buthal to love, then he does, inasmuch as he can love with his small borrowed heart. If it is trust, then he is sorry they did not die together when facing Dóiteán, for that tide ebbs and wanes between them. John and Sherlock lead dangerous lives, but it is rare such an opportunity for mutual sacrifice occurs. Are they meant, then, to live out their lives together? Or end at the same time?

What comes after?

After the murders of so many of his brethren and the loss of more still through despair and madness to the elements, there cannot be more than a handful of giants left. And none of them have succeeded in breaking their own curses. None. Buthal is perhaps the first to come so close, and it feels like failure. Even if they were all freed, would there be enough to continue as a people?

Buthal is beginning to doubt the curse can be ended. Perhaps it is the final revenge, the cruel jest of those long-dead sorcerers. Enmity undying, until all his kind are gone.

Between the two, trust and truth must be returned. Truth - what does that mean? Reveal everything?

He pictures telling the story. 'Behold me, o my heart, and fear me not - for I am of the ancient race of giants, yet I would never harm you. Oh - maybe I should mention - I am eternally cursed, and I think we may either need to love and trust each other beyond reason or logic, or simply just die together. You have my heart. Literally. And before I forget, that missing toe from the fridge? That was me. Tasted like a stale crisp.'

He imagines the look on his flat-mate's face. No. The old beliefs and superstitions are gone, no modern man would credit Buthal's story. It would ruin everything. But what if... is that what he must do?

It's ridiculous. It's terrifying.

But every deception and omission of truth between Buthal and his heart-bearer causes the space in his chest to expand and contract like a third lung.

He cannot lie to his own heart, apparently, without hurting himself.

How can he end this? The catches in the curse seem to forestall his ever breaking it.

How can Buthal tell the truth?

* * *

It's true, caring is not an advantage. Buthal's heart makes him weak, inasmuch as it also comforts him. But Buthal cares for the one who has it, and by extension he is beginning to care for others. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. Those who call him friend. Even the ones who are victims of humans even more creative in their cruelty than any monster of legend.

This incarnation, the one with a heart so close, it is changing him. It begins to feel - empathy. It hurts.

He almost wishes he could stop. But the alternative is too dark.

* * *

Dóiteán returns, and he will not be forestalled.

There is no time for the words that should pass between John and Sherlock. There is danger, and Buthal must protect his friend, lest Dóiteán squeeze his heart until it cracks. At all costs, he must protect his heart-bearer.

John throws himself into the case, a constant presence at Sherlock's side, steadfast and strong. Sherlock is at his best, working tirelessly. They have never been better together, their disparate skills enmeshing perfectly as they track Moriarty. Sherlock pieces the puzzles, John works as his hands. But even with the police behind them, it is not enough. Not against a being like Moriarty.

Thanks to Moriarty, Sherlock finds himself out of his depth again for the second time since John has known him.

John stares at Mycroft and thinks, 'Useless.' Four international assassins are camping outside Baker Street. Moriarty is involved. What is Mycroft doing? Talking to John.

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock, if you are so concerned about him?"

Mycroft feigns an interest in his drink and John smiles through his anger. Oh, god. The old same old whingeing excuses, overplayed by both brothers. _Too much history. Old scores. He started it, Mummy._

"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" John mimics Mycroft's solemn self-pity.

The expression on Mycroft's face is a picture. John lifts his brows, but Mycroft says nothing further.

John stands. He is done with this. Mycroft stirs.

"Moriarty is obsessed. He has sworn to destroy his only rival," Mycroft says.

John turns back. He doesn't think Mycroft quite gets it. "And how is that different from every other day of his life? There's always something, Sherlock is always in danger of dying. Any of us could just go at any moment. Why is this any different?"

Mycroft opens his mouth, but to hell with it, John is going to have his say. "Because it's Moriarty, and he wants Sherlock. You -" he jabs a finger in the air, "you have the whole government behind you, you have the motivation and the means. Moriarty is a man who not only has involved himself in affairs of state before, but is also threatening the life of your brother. And you sit there and refuse to be involved. Am I missing anything?"

Mycroft drops his eyes. Sod it. Useless, ineffectual thing. _Call yourself a brother?_ But at least John knows where they stand.

"So you want me to watch out for Sherlock?" John asks, just to be clear.

Yes, that is what Mycroft wants.

Stupid of him to ask. As if John weren't going to do that anyway. As if he hadn't always done that right from the start, and always would.

* * *

The steps bow and groan under footsteps, and the door of 221B swings open. Sherlock doesn't turn 'round.

"Most people knock. But then, I suppose you're not just most people." Sherlock gestures with his bow and stiffens when Moriarty deliberately takes his own leather-and-steel chair, leaving John's for Sherlock.

Moriarty's lips curl up.

Sherlock hands Moriarty a cup and saucer. They will have a civil discourse. After all, there is tea involved. But for the most part, Sherlock sits in silence, tight-lipped. He knows how this will go. Geniuses love to talk about their schemes, and Moriarty is no exception. But this visit is very personal, he doesn't like it. His skin prickles at the other's proximity.

"You need me, Sherlock. We're just alike, you and I." Moriarty's tone lilts between earnest and flippant. Every tilt of his head, every smile exudes instability. "Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain."

Sherlock's mouth twists. "Well? How are you going to do it? Burn me?" He drawls the last, provoking.

Moriarty's eyes shift away and his expression is sly. "Aren't ordinary people adorable. Well. You know. And you've got John! Clever John - you know, I should get my own live-in one." His teeth look very white and sharp as he runs his tongue over them. His expression goes blank as he tilts his face up to Sherlock's. "Your pet is a problem. I know you're quite fond of him, but he can't keep up with you. No good putting your trust in John - there's just not enough to him. Though he has his uses, I suppose." He grimaces, shoulders rolling in a shrug.

"Leave John out of this."

"Oh, my dear, I can't, I really can't, it'd be remiss of me. Wake up, Sherlock. John's not anything like you. What you have with him will never compare to what's between us." Moriarty's dark eyes are coals burning in the ash of his face. "Cut him loose. He's dragging you down to his level, trying to absorb you in his sordid low life, can't you see it?"

Sherlock's mouth is stiff as he whispers, "Why are you doing this? What is it all for?"

"I want to solve my problem. Well, it's actually our problem, the final problem. It's going to start soon, Sherlock. It'll be magical. I promise."

Sherlock stands in a quick motion. "I've never liked riddles." He turns away and crosses the room to hold open the door. "Well. That was tedious. But thank you for dropping by. Don't let me keep you."

Moriarty pushes himself upright, face ugly, the metal legs of the chair scraping backward with a ripping sound. He moves to the open door, but before Sherlock can twist away, Moriarty has the taller man's wrist in an iron grip and twists it up behind his back. With blinding speed, Sherlock's face is slammed against the wall and his body pinned. He bucks, but Moriarty is an immovable weight pressed against his back.

"Hush, hush, little one, poor weak thing. You mustn't upset me like that," croons Moriarty. "You made me so angry before, at the pool. Think of me, it's not good for me to be angry. Not that I will ever be truly angry with you, my dear."

"Get off of me," Sherlock gasps. He can't move, Moriarty is much stronger than he'd ever supposed. Sherlock can feel the heat of the man along his back, the sharp chin digging into his trapezius. His heart is tripping too fast. He lowers his voice, attempts reason. "Jim. Stop it."

Moriarty chuckles. "Oh, you are sweet like this. Don't be scared." His hand traces Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock shudders, a noise of protest escaping him. "Let me take care of everything, our little problem. It'll all be over soon. All right?"

Moriarty leans harder against him, the pressure crushing. Sherlock can feel his ribs bending, spots dance in front of his vision. Then the weight is gone. He is alone in the flat.

He moves on shaking legs to look at his chair. There are rips in the old wool rug beneath the legs and deep scrapes in the hardwood beneath.

He drops into John's chair. His hands are trembling. He presses them together, hard, and rests the tips against his lips. He sits there for a long time, looking at nothing.

* * *

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you." Molly's voice is quiet.

John is looking through some folders. Sherlock lifts his head and watches to be sure he isn't listening. _John._

Was he sad? Perhaps. Sherlock has a great mind, and he knows what is coming. He regrets the necessity.

He's going to miss John.

* * *

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**- Hurry up, they're dying! -**

* * *

The irony of the next puzzle Moriarty sends is perfect.

Two children, kidnapped, fed on sweets. Hansel and Gretel. Fairy tales again. Buthal thinks of the witch in the story, burned alive in her own oven. So all monsters end, in such stories. There is no happy ending for them.

Chocolates, laced with mercury. The hungrier these living children became, the more they ate. The faster they would die.

Killing themselves in small degrees - the parallel with the curse is obvious and insidious. What audacity.

"Neat," breathes Sherlock, eyes wide. John gives him a grim look, unamused.

"Don't do that. The smiling. Kidnapped children, remember."

* * *

He feels his borrowed heart fluttering inside his chest. There is a distance growing between Buthal and his heart-bearer, a strain, and no way to stop it. They are constantly side-by-side, shoulders brushing, yet so far in the ways that count.

He is being destroyed inch by inch. The constant threat makes him regress to old hungers, longing for the power and strength to shelter his heart-bearer. Resisting that siren call is difficult, yet he must or his life above-ground will end sooner rather than later. If his heart-bearer dies, Buthal will go under regardless.

But he has this at least - if he is separated from his heart this lifetime, he knows that it is possible to find it again. Now he has done it once, he knows he can do it again. Buthal does not truly die. He will be back, though this particular heart-bearer will not.

The thought hurts him. He wonders at himself, this attachment to one person.

The costs to keep his heart-bearer alive are high. But if that is what it takes, he will pay them.

* * *

Moriarty's web draws closer about Sherlock. _Fake. False. Fraud. _The lies are subtle and all the more believable for it. Sherlock exists in a state of frozen anger, but John can see the uncertainty beneath, the fear that he will lose this game.

So thin, that edge. Rumor cannot be killed, and now the great detective is the great fake, and even those closest to Sherlock are beginning to doubt. The strain is beginning to tell on both John and Sherlock.

Sherlock refuses to go to the station for questioning concerning the kidnapping of the children. Lestrade takes the refusal with resignation, but it doesn't look good. John watches Donovan and Lestrade leave and his face is tense. They will be back with a warrant, he knows.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're -"

Sherlock's voice is low. "That I am what."

There's a beat. "A fraud," says John.

Sherlock tilts his head back. "You're worried they're right about me. That's why you're so upset" John rejects this, but Sherlock presses on, voice rising, "Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see what's going on!"

John expels a breath and looks away. His left hand clenches. "No. I know you are for real." His voice is flat, certain. He turns back to hold Sherlock's gaze. "No one can fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

Sherlock believes him.

Mrs. Hudson brings up the next package, sent by 'some fellow with fairy tale name.' John opens it and tilts out the contents. A gingerbread man, crumbling like dark earth at the edges.

"Burnt to a crisp," says Sherlock. "His usual threat."

John's face is stricken.

* * *

The cuffs go on Sherlock. John watches, jaw clenched. Sherlock does his best to comfort him, voice tight. "It's all right, John." But it's not all right, nothing can make this right. They are being separated.

Buthal's human heart is pinching, he can feel the accelerated beat of his own across the room.

Sherlock's face is set as he looks at John before he roughly turned and taken downstairs.

Within two minutes, John is shoved against the patrol car next to Sherlock. The chief superintendent glares at him as he pinches his bleeding nose, and Sherlock relaxes.

"Joining me?"

* * *

They run. A man who is an assassin saves them, then dies in front of them. Sherlock snarls. Moriarty is cutting them off from all paths of escape, all help. The stain of lies is spreading, and the key is Richard Brooks, Kitty Riley's source for her libelous newspaper articles.

But - Richard Brooks is Moriarty, playing a down-at-heels actor with consummate skill, cringing as he faces Sherlock and John.

John's rage swells to fill the narrow confines of Kitty's flat. "No, he's Moriarty, we've met! You were going to blow me up!"

Kitty's eyes dart, recording all this for her next scoop. "Sherlock invented James Moriarty. His nemesis. It's capital - he's a master villain."

It's ludicrous that she thinks Sherlock is the only monster in the room. Kitty thrusts the actor's CV at John as proof, and Moriarty nods in frantic agreement.

"It's true. I tell kids' stories. I'm The Story-teller."

Buthal's skin crawls. Oh, what stories he and Dóiteán could tell. They are the stuff of stories, the true ones that gave nightmares.

"Just tell him. It's all coming out now, it's all over. Just tell him." Dóiteán's voice is convincing, shrill.

_I can't tell him, not like this, not now._

But Dóiteán knows this, and the smile that flickers over the giant's face is whip-crack fast before being covered with human-terror again.

Buthal had been reluctant before, but now he is more than ready to kill his own brother. The chaos Dóiteán is seeding is nourishing his power, tearing at Buthal's heart-bond.

Sherlock lunges, and Moriarty shrieks.

"Stop it, stop it now!" roars Sherlock. Moriarty scrambles away up the stairs, the bannister rail splintering under his hand. The bathroom window is cracked and swinging wide when Sherlock throws back the door. John swears.

* * *

John visits Mycroft while Sherlock hides himself from the police. There are a few things John would like to say to Sherlock's brother. There are a few things he'd like to do as well, but he'll settle for this.

"Kitty Riley really did her homework." John's entire demeanour shouts his disgust. "There are two people in the world Sherlock trusts, and I know Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me. Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

Mycroft shifts. "I never intended- I never dreamt..."

"And this is what you were trying to tell me. 'Watch his back.' You made a mistake." John leans forward, armchair creaking, fingers denting the leather. His blue eyes burn with cold fury at Mycroft. "And now his circle of trust is so small it excludes even family. Do you have any idea what that must do to him, that his own brother -?"

Mycroft's reasons for betraying his brother's trust are inexcusable. John will never forgive him.

John smiles without humour. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and even his own brother is helping to stick the knife in. So, I suppose now it's all down to me. Well, rest your mind on that score. You can be sure I'll do a better job protecting than you have."

Mycroft is as off-centre as John has ever seen him. "John. I'm sorry."

John shoves back his chair with a violent scrape, laughing. "Oh, please."

"Tell him, would you," says Mycroft.

John turns back at the door. "You're his _brother_. Tell him yourself."

Mycroft says nothing.

Later, John will understand why.

* * *

**To: James Moriarty**

**Come and play. Bart's hospital rooftop.**

**SH**

Sherlock looks up. John is pacing between the desks in the lab where Molly has hidden them. He thinks of Moriarty's fingers when they met, tapping out a code - the code to break any security system in the world. Now Sherlock has the key to the puzzle, it's time to play this out. His face is blank as he sends the post-script.

**PS. Got something of yours you might want back.**

Not that Moriarty would enjoy it long.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson's_ dying_, Sherlock."

"You go. I'm busy."

John should have known better. He should have seen that Sherlock was deliberately goading him, driving him to such blind fury that he left him at the lab. Misdirection. Lies to drive him away.

"You machine. Sod this, you stay here on your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." _Protects you._

_Liar._

"No. Friends protect people."

Any way they can.

* * *

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**I'm waiting.**

* * *

One man returns to the dark.

One man falls from a great height.

One man's trust is broken.

No one dies.

Not really.

* * *

The headstone is plain, glossy black. 'Sherlock Holmes,' it reads. There are no dates. John rests his fingers on the cool surface. "I was so alone. And I owe you so much."

He swallows and turns away, then back. "No. No, there's just one more thing, just one more: Sherlock, don't... don't... Why did you - why?" He closes his eyes, fists his hand and rubs it over his breastbone. "Would you please... stop it. I know. I know. So stop this." Roughly he scrubs at his eyes, takes a few breaths.

He coughs. He stands to attention, nods and walks away.

Sherlock watches from a distance.

* * *

**The Cottage**

The investigator shuts the notebook, stunned. It sounds like fantasy, it ought to be - but the level of detail is incredible. Only someone who know those involved could have written this. The notebook is set aside. Another is within reach, and the need to know is imperative.

* * *

**Author's note:** Yes, some forward movement at last. I do hope this Reichenbach, though full of bittersweet angst, isn't as wrenching as the real one.

If you'd asked me a month ago if it were possible to have a Reichenbach Fall where no one actually dies... Well. How about that?


	3. Monster

**Author's note:** Some descriptions of torture this chapter.

* * *

**The Cottage**

When the figure at the desk open the next notebook, several folded sheets fall out. The yellowing paper is smoothed out with trembling hands. It's a transcript with personal notes added - the conversation held between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes just before the great criminal mastermind died.

No one in the world, excepting Sherlock, Moriarty and perhaps John know what transpired.

The printed words are devoured, the images dancing before the mind's eye.

* * *

_Rooftop - Bart's Hospital_

_The tinny strains of 'Stayin' Alive' echo across the rooftop. Moriarty smiles as Sherlock approaches. "At last. Here we are, you and me." He switches off the player. "Staying alive. It's so boring, though. Dying, living - pretty much the same after a while. It's just... staying."_

_"I wouldn't know," Sherlock says._

_"No, you wouldn't, would you." Moriarty grins briefly. "I've been looking for you for such a long time, you know. My match. And now I've got you." He gets up and paces around Sherlock, notes how Sherlock's fingers are tapping out a tattoo against his leg. "Oh, I see you got that too."_

_"Binary code. You showed me - the key to get into any computer, locked into my head." Sherlock holds himself still. "That's why all those assassins tried to save my life."_

_Moriarty looks at him in astonishment before burying his head in his hands. "No. No, no, no! You got it wrong, you doofus! There is no code, there never was!" He screams the last._

_"Then what is it?" Sherlock looks lost._

_"The code was the bait to get you here. It's meaningless. God! I can't believe you fell for that! You disappoint me, Sherlock, you really do." Moriarty's voice is patronising. "Bribes, inside work, that's all it took - just the rumour of a code was enough to bring the boys running to my yard."_

_Sherlock's voice rises. "Then why have them save my life?"_

_Moriarty looks up from under his lashes. "To keep you safe for me, silly."_

* * *

Buthal wants to vomit, the pain is so great. But he understands. Oh, he understands.

He cannot stay here and look at the grave, that waiting darkness. The separation is necessary but hurtful.. The space in his chest is huge, and the hunger is growing. Buthal must protect his heart-bearer, and now the price must be paid.

There is a hunt to finish. The hunger must be fed. The sooner Buthal starts, the faster they will be together again. And then - he will tell his heart everything.

He disappears.

* * *

_Rooftop - Bart's Hospital._

_"I must say, you've chosen a great place for your grand exit." Moriarty rubs his hands together. "So airy. I love it."_

_Sherlock's mouth opens. "Ah. My suicide. The great fraud kills himself, proves everyone right."_

_"I read it in the paper," Moriarty intones, "So it must be true. I do love newspapers. They twist up everything. Fairy tales." He grins. "Grimm ones."_

_Sherlock's voice is hoarse. "John will never believe it. He won't let this go, he'll shout it to the world -"_

_Moriarty steps into Sherlock's space so quickly that Sherlock recoils. "Do not mention his name to me again. Your little pet's attachment is the reason I had to intervene so dramatically. It's all his fault." His face is twisted with rage, but abruptly smooths out. "You are mine, Sherlock. Pity I had to play the villain. Still." He nods at the edge of the roof. "Go to it. Need to get on with my life here - such as it is."_

_Sherlock paces as Moriarty badgers him. "Go on. For me. Pleeeease?" He sighs in exasperation, voice hardening. "Need some extra incentive? Fine. Your friends will die if you don't."_

_Sherlock freezes. "John."_

_"Yes, and your little dog too!" mocks Moriarty. "Everyone."_

_Sherlock's hands are trembling. He knew this was coming. He is ready. Everything is prepared. "And if I do jump?"_

_"What do you think, moron? The hunt is called off. Your friends live happily ever after."_

_"I thought you wanted John out of picture."_

_Moriarty waves this away. "Well... I had such plans for him. But after this -" he spreads his hands. "Bygones. But only if my associates see you jump. Nothing's going to prevent their deaths..."_

_"...Unless I kill myself. Complete your fairy tale." Sherlock's voice is dull._

_"You gotta admit, that's how the stories end. The horrid monster always gets killed by the plucky underdog."_

* * *

In the next year, reports make their way back to Mycroft of organisations tumbled, certain key people taken by the authorities. Others are killed. But the murders aren't following the right pattern, though all are undoubtedly key players in Moriarty's network of crime. It is the manner of their killing that worries him. A number of them are quite... untidy.

He leafs through the newest report, noting the names. Georgian, connected to the notoriously corrupt police force in some way. And now four of them are dead in a country villa outside Zugdidi. Mycroft's lips compress as he looks at the latest collection of photos.

This is one of the bloodiest, though he supposes that is due to the number of victims involved. But the dismemberment - arms torn away, heads twisted, a jaw hanging by a shred of muscle with the tongue lolling beneath - this is excessive. It attracts too much attention, though no perpetrator has been caught. Mycroft wonders how much longer that can go on.

His gaze lingers on one photo longer than the others, that of a middle-aged man with his face contorted in a mask of agony. There are bloody sockets where his eyes should be, and the chest cavity has been ripped open, the ribs blackened with blood and splayed like the broken tines of a macabre fan. Viscera has dried and stuck to the floor. The man's heart was taken, along with other organs and flesh, torn free with savage force.

No, it's too much. There are only one or two of Moriarty's associates left to be disposed of.

He must contact Sherlock.

* * *

_Rooftop, Bart's Hospital_

_Sherlock's face is blank and Moriarty giggles. "What, don't tell me you thought all that rubbish I sent you meant that I was the giant in our little fairy tale? Don't be stupid, that's completely ridiculous." His face is sly with amusement. "Except it isn't. Don't you love it when there's a twist?"_

_Sherlock's mouth is tight._

_"Now where were we again? Ah yes. The tragic demise of the great detective. The end. You - or your friends."_

_Sherlock moves as though in a dream to the edge and looks down. "Give me a moment. Please."_

_Moriarty clicks his tongue. "Well, since you asked so nicely." He turns away and begins to hum. Sherlock begins to chuckle, and Moriarty whirls, furious._

_"No," says Sherlock. "I don't have to die. Not when I have - you." He taps the air with a finger. "Just one word, and they live."_

_"Oh!" Jim laughs, clapping his hands. "You think you can make me stop the order? You? Oh, honey. Have you forgotten our last encounter? Trust me - there is no possible way you can beat me in a fight."_

_"Yes, but who says I need to beat you?" Sherlock's smile broadens to a fierce grin. "I only need to - join you."_

_Moriarty's face loses all expression. "You - you don't mean that."_

_Sherlock stands over him, leans in and lowers his voice. "You thought I was ordinary? Not I. You shall see how extraordinary I am - what we will be. Together. Isn't that what you always wanted?"_

_The look on Moriarty's face is glowing. "Oh, yes," he breathes. "Yes. I knew it. I have people waiting downstairs for the operation."_

* * *

It is an unlikely place for Sherlock's hunt to end. Kinloch Rannoch is a tiny Scottish village famed for its outdoor pursuits and trekking. He has tracked the last survivor of Moriarty's organisation (ex-Army, SRR, one Seren Moran according to his intelligence) to this vicinity and it seems his work is producing fruit at last.

Then there's the matter of John. Sherlock hasn't forgotten Moriarty's promise to burn the heart out of him and his own flippant answer. How wrong he was. If Sherlock has anything resembling a heart, it resides in one John Watson. Although Moriarty's empire has been disassembled, John is now in immediate danger. One last obstacle, and then they can go home.

Casually talking with locals under the guise of looking for a trekking partner, he has learned of a well-built man with red-blond hair that has taken a holiday cottage nearby. A few women at the pub comment favourably on this quiet stranger, who is in the habit of having a drink at the local nearly every night. One plump-faced young woman giggles, remarking that it was a pity the gentleman looks so haggard, almost ill.

"Positively hunted, my dears," she says and a slim man in an anorak at the bar with his back to the room ducks his head, choking a laugh into his drink. "Pity he's not here tonight." Sherlock shrugs and turns the conversation to new topics before the woman can focus her amorous attentions upon him. Finishing his chips, he drops a few bills and leaves the pub, pockets stuffed with tourist pamphlets, camera slung 'round his neck. His is mind ticking over the information gleaned.

Sherlock gets into his rented Rover and pulls out the pamphlets. Hotels, cottages, rafting, trekking - he leafs through until he finds the one that caught his eye. Local sights - 'The Sleeping Giant,' a hill reputed to resemble the head and upper torso of a man. His gaze lifts to the mountains surrounding the village.

Well. This story would end as it had begun then. Fairy tale monsters. He's come full circle.

* * *

The promise of the lowering clouds is fulfilled as Sherlock parks the Rover down the lane from West Carey Cottage. Raindrops pelt the windscreen as he dresses, wriggling into dark khakis, hiking boots and a fleece jumper. The holster with its pistol are covered by the sweep of the rain poncho. To a casual observer he is just another holidayer with a broken-down car and his phone dead who needs to call a friend. He pulls the hood up over his head and rests his hands against the dashboard, eyes closed.

He has been dreading this moment. But he can't go on any longer without John.

He opens the door and steps out into the rain.

The net curtains drawn across the windows of the cottage mask the interior as Sherlock makes his cautious way closer. He scans the ground as he approaches, but in the darkness of the evening, nothing can be made out on the soft ground. A sensible rental vehicle is parked in the drive, the clean interior offering no information. The tinned laughter of a program on the telly can be heard even from outside over the sound of the rain. Sherlock looks within. Silhouetted in the flickering blue light, he can just make out a figure sagging in slumber in an armchair facing the television, one with short, neat blond hair. Sherlock expels a breath.

He makes his way to the front door and presses the doorbell, hearing the chime within. There is no response. He presses again twice. A light flicks on and he hears slow footsteps inside. There is a shadow, indistinct through the frosted panel of the door. The exterior light flicks on, blinding him as the bolt is unlocked. At the same moment, Sherlock hears the crunch of gravel on the walkway. He whirls, reaching for his pistol too late as as the electrodes of the Taser hit him. He falls in a heap with his muscles twitching, his heart giving a painful double thump.

"That's enough for now, Ronnie," says a smooth voice. As hands deftly brush aside his poncho and lift his gun, Sherlock tries to force his muscles to obey but stops when he hears the click of the safety.

He wants to say something about how overly-dramatic it is, to un-safety a gun when he still has electrodes snagged in his skin, but all that comes out is a groan. Stupid, stupid to fall for such a ploy.

His poncho hood is pushed back and he sees a young woman with short blond hair and lovely blue eyes wearing an anorak - the young man from the pub that had his back turned the whole time Sherlock had been there. Of course - the man had hunched over his drink to hide his face and hands, Sherlock realises. He's been so stupid, too worried about getting to Joohn and getting him to safety.

Her lips curve into a smile but there is no friendliness behind it.

"Sherlock Holmes, at long last," she says. "I've been waiting for you. I'm Seren Moran, though I think you knew that already. Don't try anything. We've some time to kill, and there are plenty of non-lethal places I can hurt you - will hurt you - before we're done." She stands. "Ronnie, get the zip-ties on him and help me get him inside."

* * *

_Rooftop - Bart's Hospital._

_Sherlock steps back. "What?"_

_"The operation, the old switcheroo, you know!" Moriarty's hands are flexing as if to draw Sherlock closer. "You're not ordinary, oh no. You're me." His smile is jubilant. "My heart for yours. This is perfect, perfect, I knew it! Well, not sure if you'll make it, once you do your little swan dive, you're bound to be a mess -"_

_With a snarl Sherlock grabs Moriarty's tie and jerks, twisting the silk. "You're insane."  
Moriarty blinks up at him, unafraid. One hand snakes up between them and presses against Sherlock's wildly beating heart. A smile creeps across Moriarty's face._

_"No, I'm not," he sings-songs._

_Sherlock yanks the tie savagely but Moriarty is an immovable weight. Without any effort he knocks Sherlock's hands away._

_"Hands off, my precious, you don't want my people to get antsy, do you?" He smooths his tie. "The old ticker isn't doing as well as it should. Kind of a dietary problem, heh. So, a heart for a heart. You weren't using yours anyway. Don't worry." His face is serene, incandescent. "My doctors are very good. And there's only two more conditions to be met." He glances at the roof edge. "Off you pop."_

_"No. No," chokes Sherlock. "I won't do it."_

_Moriarty sighs happily. "Yes, you will. Thank you. Bless you, Sherlock Holmes. You're everything I could have hoped for, after all this time."_

_"You're mad," breathes Sherlock. "Mad."_

_"I'm not. Really, I'm not," Moriarty chides, voice choked yet strangely loving. He strokes a hand over Sherlock's heart. "Because I know that as long as I'm alive, you'll try to renege and save your little friends. Together. That's what you promised." His lashes are wet. He pulls the gun from his waistband and puts it in his mouth._

* * *

They wait for John. Inside, the telly yammers on with its inane programs and commercials, investing the scene with a nightmarish quality.

Seren begins with Sherlock's right foot. Stripped to his boxers and tied to a kitchen chair, he is unable to hold back the cries as she works from the little toe inwards. The hammer flashes down in hard, precise strokes, each causing a lighting bolt of pain to whiten his vision. Seren is methodical, detached as she gauges each blow. When his big toe is broken, she pauses.

"I hope your friend isn't long, Sherlock. You'll end up a cripple if he's late." She runs a hand up the curve of his quivering calf muscle.

"What have you done with John?"

"Nothing. He really is an outdoors type, isn't he. Wanders the hills for hours. I just stole his car. Oh, and had Ronnie lift his phone last time he was down at the pub. Not that he's used it much this past year. The last text message was from you. Sentimental thing, isn't he?"

Sherlock says nothing, and Seren tweaks one of his broken toes. Sherlock curses through gritted teeth.

"I owe you," she says. "A lot of my associates in the business are gone now, thanks to you. I have to say, though." She strokes his leg again. "I was quite surprised by your brutality. I'd have thought a posh bloke like you would kill with a lot more finesse."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Sherlock says.

She stands to move behind him. A high-pitched noise escapes him as one of his fingers is bent, the joint dislocating with a dull popping noise. "Butchery. You may not believe me, but I do have some standards, and tearing people apart like an animal? It's not what I call sportsman-like. Hm?" Another finger is fractured, and Sherlock writhes, throwing his weight back to try and overturn the chair. She braces him with a hip. "Ah, ah, ah. You're not going anywhere."

"That wasn't me."

"Of course. It was some other person who just happened to be taking down Jim's network." She grabs a handful of hair, yanks Sherlock's head back. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Sherlock stares into her eyes. "It - wasn't - me."

She lets him go. "Whatever. You're still going to die for what you did to Jim. You broke your promise, Sherlock. You didn't jump. And now it's up to me to keep good on Jim's promise."

Sherlock understands. _John._

"Burn the heart out of you," agrees Seren. "A bit impractical. We've got the supplies ready and waiting. Then when I'm done with him, you're next. Have to say, I'm really going to enjoy punching your ticket."

"Moriarty was insane," Sherlock says. "You do realize that."

Seren's face darkens, the only warning Sherlock has. He relaxes his neck and turns with the blow, but his lip is split. "Shut it. Jim was odd, yes. Borderline, definitely. But he was good to me. He helped me out of a difficult situation when I was in the Army. He encouraged my potential, he paid well, and he gave me interesting work."

"The perfect boss," says Sherlock in dry sarcasm. She nods seriously.

"He was. And unlike you, he never, ever underestimated my sex. But now he's gone. And that's your fault, Sherlock." Her voice thickens. "Before you, he was fine. Then you met, and I saw how that seed of instability just bloomed. You made him worse. It's because of you he killed himself."

Sherlock can say nothing to this. Seren clears her throat. "I owe you so much. For Jim. Meantime, I've always wanted to try this. Ronnie, prop his chair back against those two and fill the kettle. Tea pot too. I need to find a pillowcase."

* * *

...5, 6, 7... Tachycardia. Pulse elevated, heart is thrumming in his chest. The water continues to pour.

...10, 11 - 11...11 _what's the next number next can't breathe drowning can't BREATHE_ 11, 12... 12?

Sherlock is shaking uncontrollably when the cloth is pulled away from his face and his chair is lifted upright again. He doesn't know if the moisture running down his face is from only water.

He can't. Can't do this again. Not even his great mind can control his gag reflex or the instinctive animal fear of drowning.

Seren watches as Sherlock gulps air in heaves, her head tilted. "My word. That was better than I'd ever expected."

Ronnie stirs. "What the hell is taking him so long?"

Seren looks at her watch, a crease between her brows. "Won't be long now, I estimated it'd take him three hours to walk to the nearest road. Move the car and get into position. I'll keep working."

Ronnie goes, muttering about the cold and rain. Seren picks up the hammer and looks at Sherlock's feet thoughtfully. "I wonder how many blows it'll take to pulverize those broken toes? They'll need amputating."

Sherlock can't control the shuddering inhale, nearly a sob. John was coming. _Stay away_. "Fuck you."

Seren grins. "My God, it's really breaking you, isn't it. Marvellous." She gets down on one knee again. "This little piggy -"

There's a shout, gunshots, a scream that is abruptly choked off in a gurgle. Seren starts to her feet, hammer clattering to the floor. In a swift movement she is behind Sherlock, gun out. There is silence.

Sherlock's eyes close briefly.

"Ronnie?" Seren calls.

There are three taps at the door. Polite. _May I come in?_ thinks Sherlock. Absurd, that rapping. So like John. His head is swimming.

Seren hesitates, face grim. "Don't fuck around with me."

There's a pause, then there are three more knocks, harder, the door shuddering. Sherlock hears the glass panel crack.

Seren chokes a laugh. "You've got to be joking. Fine, you need an invitation? You got it." She reaches down and twists Sherlock's broken finger. He screams.

"John! John, run!"

A noise that starts as a groan increases in volume to a howl of rage. Three more times they hear the knocks, blows of such strength the floor jolts underfoot and pictures jump on the walls. Sherlock hears the door crash inward. Seren grips Sherlock chin and grinds the muzzle into his temple. Heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by a slithering sound.

John appears in the archway. But -

Not John. John doesn't look like that, Sherlock thinks, thoughts sputtering and jumping. John is a smallish man with a kind face. John wears jumpers and drinks tea.

John is not nearly seven feet tall, with huge shoulders brushing the sides of the archway and tiles crackling beneath his feet. John does not have a face covered in gore and a wild expression. John does not drag headless corpses one-handed like a rag doll that leaks blood and guts.

John does not do things like lift killer's heads and press his mouth to an eye socket, biting and sucking until blood and other liquids run down, never taking his eyes from the woman holding the gun as he does so.

This is not John. This is an elemental creature of bone and blood, rage and hunger. This is chaos incarnate.

Sherlock makes a wordless noise, and the blue eyes behind the blood mask flash to his, and _oh_. That look. Sherlock's lips shape on a name.

Seren's hands have relaxed in shock; the muzzle of the gun drooping. "What the fuck?" she breathes. "What the fuck?"

John releases the body, letting it fall with a thump. He takes a step forward. "Human." His voice is gravel deep, but Sherlock can hear the cadences of John's speech, the commonplace voice imbued with power and menace. "You have something of mine. If you want to live, free him." He licks his lips, bloody teeth bared in a grin that is unsettlingly familiar. "Now."

The smile snaps the tension and Seren raises the gun, not to Sherlock's head but at John.

"No!" Sherlock jerks his body, hoping to knock her aim off. But John is already moving, body turning with inhuman grace, arm pulling back and throwing Ronnie's head at Seren. The shot goes wild as she stumbles back, and then John has her, the gun clattering somewhere as she screams.

She struggles as huge hands clamp her arms to her sides and lift her. John is snarling, lips drawn back. She kicks, one flailing leg connecting with Sherlock's chair, overbalancing it. Sherlock falls sideways, jarring his entire body. He does not know what noise he makes. The pain darkens his vision. He hears a crash across the room, then a heavy weight falls next to him.

"Sherlock?" The heavy voice is frantic. "Sherlock! Are you all right, are you all right?"

Huge hands run over his body, tearing away bindings. Sherlock blinks away moisture and focuses on the face near his, the terror in the familiar blue eyes. "It's you. John." His mouth opens, closes again. He swallows down the relief, the lump of emotion. "Your hair is... ginger."

The hands still.

Sherlock wants to laugh. He licks his bleeding lip. "Giants usually have red hair in the stories."

The moment draws out. Tinned laughter from the telly bubbles in the quiet house.

And yes, that's the expression Sherlock loves best, that stunned look followed by exasperation. The wild joy is something new, though. Sherlock files that look away. John lifts Sherlock free of the chair, settles him on the floor as if he were something infinitely fragile and precious.

"Yes. Yes, that's true," John says. "The stories get it right sometimes, you know. Fee, fi, fo, fum and all that."

Sherlock feels drunk. He chokes a laugh in spite of his growing pain in the aftermath of adrenalin.

John joins him, the gravelly chuckle growing louder until he breaks off with a gasp, hunching over. his knees. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he presses a hand to his chest. His complexion has gone grey under the drying blood.

"John, what is it? Were you shot?" Not that, not after all he's done to protect John.

"No, not that. Give me a moment, just -" John stays bent over, drawing in deep breaths for several moments. He straightens up, a sickly smile on his face. "Sorry. Sudden exercise, excitement. My heart. I have... a condition."

"I've noticed," Sherlock says in the understatement of this entire eventful year. "Will you be all right?"

John drops his gaze. "No. But I'm fine for now. You're safe, that's what matters."

"Seren?" Sherlock rolls his head to look at the figure crumbled against the cabinets.

"Dead. Neck broke when I tossed her."

"Good." Sherlock relaxes. "Thank you."

John's hands are carefully brushing Sherlock's swelling fingers. "My pleasure. I've got to get you to hospital -"

"No." At John's look, Sherlock continues. "Later. You still have your bag? Good enough. Tape me up here. We - we have to talk. About everything."

"Sherlock, you need x-rays, what if -"

"I trust you." He does. John's wide mouth opens a little, then a small smile curves it.

* * *

Through the hour that follows, they talk.

"How?" Sherlock asks, and John explains about his people, their history, their powers.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, and John's voice grows anguished, angry, shamed as he explains the curse came. His arrogance, his greed and hunger. His guilt and grief that he is the reason his people die. His shuddering horror of the times he's spent in the earth, sleepless. His hopelessness, the futility of his search - until he met Sherlock.

Sherlock watches the play of expressions over John's face, and doesn't wonder that he never guessed the truth. If humanity is John's mask, it is the most perfect mask Sherlock has ever seen. John may think he is a monster, but his anguish is as human, as real as he is.

"What's your true name?"

John looks surprised, then wistful. "No one's asked me that in about a thousand years." He takes breath. "Buthal. Also known as Buthal the Terrible, Buthal the Cursed. Before, I was known as Buthal the Red."

"Buthal," says Sherlock, rolling the name on his tongue. "Suits you."

John ducks his head. "Thanks."

"It was you," Sherlock says. "In Europe. I kept finding targets that had conveniently died before I got to them."

"Yes." John presses another piece of sticking-plaster to Sherlock's foot, and Sherlock hisses.

"You ate them. To grow stronger, strong enough to - John, why?" Sherlock is appalled - not by the cannibalism, but because John has been killing himself by degrees. For him.

"I had to protect you."

"I thought I was protecting _you_."

John's face is calm. "I know. I always knew you were alive. Because of this." He rests a hand on Sherlock's chest. "I - if I die, if I go back under, I'll have another chance. You wouldn't. That's not right." He looks at Sherlock's face. "So."

Sherlock's heart is beating hard beneath the touch. "John."

John shrugs, but his huge fingers rub gently. "Not going to say it wasn't hard. I was going to tell you everything, but then Moriarty..." He sighs. "What hurt most was knowing you didn't trust me enough to tell me what was going on."

"We are a pair, aren't we," Sherlock murmurs. John's lips twitch.

"Yeah, regular heroes, dying for each other. Come on, let's get you settled. I've got to, er, clean up." John wrinkles his nose.

"Yes. Inconvenient if you're finally taken up for double homicide, of all things." Sherlock tries to sit up with a groan, but is swept up like a child in John's arms and carried to the couch, complaining all the way. He is settled on the cushions, but catches John's arm with his one good hand as he turns away. "I won't lose you, John. Not like this. Don't - don't..."

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to eat the evidence, if that's what you're thinking."

Sherlock digs his nails in. "Don't even think it, you are not allowed to kill yourself over me any more. Do you understand? Give me time, I'll find a way to help you. But as for our friends in the kitchen, here's what you are going to do... "

Seren receives a gunshot wound and careful positioning. Ronnie's parts are bagged and wrapped with several heavy pieces of home electronics and sunk in Loch Rannoch. Some combustible household chemicals and Seren's heart-burning kit later, John and Sherlock drive away in the Rover. Behind, the smoke rises unseen into the black night sky.

* * *

**The Cottage**

_My God. My God_. The figure in the cottage clutches at the desk. If even a fraction of this is true, it will be a sensation. Even publishing the transcript from Bart's Hospital would make headlines. And a path of bloody murders across Europe? Assassins? Arson? The hint of cannibalism makes it deliciously ghoulish.

There is one more notebook left, thinner than the others.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The long denouement to follow - in which curses are broken, some small comforts are found, people are revealed, and things end in a happy-as-a-dark-fairy-tale-can-go kind of way.

Tell me, honestly - did you realise? And if so, when? I'd love to know. You can back-read lots, it gives the story a whole new spin.


	4. Giants

**The Cottage**

_Hurry_. The figure checks the time again. It is a long drive to the village, but the owners of the cottage will be back from dinner soon. Best not to be caught snooping when the three returned.

The thinnest notebook, the last, is flipped open.

* * *

_Interminable thy quest take thee, diseased and dwindling_

_Till twain of oppos'd temperament meet and know_

_And betwixt two, trust and truth be returned_

_Heart for heart, man to monster, monster to man_

* * *

Sherlock sleeps, flushed and snoring lightly on the lowered seats in the back of the Rover much of the way to London, courtesy of John's cache of drugs. When he wakes, he insists on sitting up front to talk about the curse.

"So, your heart is reincarnated in a human. And you go under if you took too much flesh, or if you died prematurely. What if the host dies?"

"I'd follow soon after. Sudden death, natural causes. You know."

"Two of opposite temperament meet..."

John snorts. "If I'd met you even three centuries ago, I don't think it would've worked. I was still too - well, I was ungentle." He broods. "I've changed. Started caring. Probably down to your kind and loving disposition."

Sherlock's lips twitch. "So they meet and know. Aside from knowledge, it implies understanding, and that's repeated. 'Betwixt two, trust and truth be returned.' You know me, and now I know all about you."

"I don't frighten you? Disgust you?" John answers his own question. "No, of course not. It's you." There's a wealth of affection in his deepened voice.

"You gave me a bad moment. But it's you, John. By your own words, you would die for me. You _are_ dying for me, when you could have just -" Sherlock's voice catches and he straightens in his seat. "Oh. _Oh._"

John looks over, brows wrinkling. "What?"

"He told me. Moriarty. He said, 'My doctors are very good.' He was going to have the hearts switched, mine for his. 'Heart for heart, man to monster.'"

"But he killed himself!"

"That wouldn't matter. John, if he'd done it and been buried, _returned to the earth_, he would have woken whole, don't you see?"

The steering wheel groans in plastic complaint under John's hands. "You wouldn't have. Returned."

Sherlock reaches with his good hand and rests it on John's, feeling the warmth. "It wouldn't have worked. I didn't have his heart. Well, I did think he was insane." John is silent, and Sherlock presses on, "And even though he trusted me to take my own life, by compelling me to do it against my will goes against the wording of the curse. Trust. Trust and truth returned. Blackmailing me into suicide by using the lives of my friends as a threat in no way engenders trust."

"I trust you, Sherlock. Completely. I would never ask you to kill yourself for me. I am not my brother. Dóiteán was mad." John's voice is rough. His face is grey and sheened with sweat. He looks dreadful, a man whose days are marked. "I don't even want you to die for me."

"I don't think either of us will have to go that far."

"Sherlock. I'm dying anyway." John's voice is gentle. "I don't have much time left. I can feel the pull."

Sherlock snatches his hand away. "You are going to have all the time in the world, John Watson. One last trick, and it ends. I swear it."

* * *

They fight about Sherlock's idea the rest of the way into London, John's voice overpowering Sherlock's and the timbre causing the rear-view mirror to tremble. Sherlock snaps at him not to get worked up and kill both himself and John in an auto accident, and didn't John trust Sherlock?

John submits with bad grace. Terror for Sherlock makes his human heart tremble within him. But Sherlock is brilliant, a genius, and in that great mind, in those hands will John place his trust and his life. Hope is another agony to bear, but John hopes anyway. Sherlock can save him. Save them both.

He always knew Sherlock was a great man. Now Buthal knows that Sherlock has made his giant heart great as well.

* * *

Sherlock presses the buzzer of the flat. John's arm holds him against his body to take most of his weight from his injured foot. The door opens. Molly sees Sherlock, bruised, bandaged and rumpled, and gasps.

"Sherlock! Oh my God, are you okay?" Her gaze travels to John's arm, and up. Her eyes widen and she presses the back of a hand against her mouth.

"Hello, Molly," John says. "Long time."

"...John?" she whispers. His great head dips in a nod.

"Molly," says Sherlock. "Once, you said you'd do anything. I - we need you."

The moment hangs as she looks between them. "Okay," she says. "You'd better come in."

* * *

Molly doesn't want to do it, but is convinced. Buthal is not surprised. Sherlock points out that John is going to die unless they do something, and it warms the space around Buthal's heart to hear his arguments for prolonging the life of a monster. It is not an easy thing, to ask a modern human to believe in magic.

Buthal shakes his head. Sherlock is is brilliant, but all too unaware of one facet of his character. Sherlock prefers to think logic and persuasion accounts for his winning the argument. It's not, though.

Sherlock has the gift of inspiring other to follow his lead. He is - trustworthy. They believe in him.

John and Sherlock wait in Molly's flat while she collects the things they will need. John checks Sherlock's injuries, makes him join him for a meal of tea, sandwiches and painkillers. Sherlock lays on the couch, drowsing. John sits on the floor next to him, watchful, hand resting over Sherlock's heart protectively, as though now he's come this close, he can't bear not to touch him, not to be as close as possible. His face is weary, and hope and fear carve deep lines of strain into his pale skin.

When the call comes, John drives them to Bart's, the suspension on the Rover groaning when he squeezes in.

* * *

"Where did your heart come from? I mean, you have a human heart. Whose was it?" Sherlock is fumbling with the buttons on his shirt one-handed. Molly brushes his hands aside and takes over, easing the sleeve over his splinted fingers.

"Dunno. I wasn't in any condition to ask," says John. He is sitting bare-chested and incongruous on plastic sheeting on the floor, none of the examining tables in the morgue being strong enough to support him. "Maybe some ancestor of yours?"

"He didn't die, did he?" asks Molly.

"He better not have, he got my heart, the jammy bastard. King Arthur was all kinds of a murderous arse, but I can't see him forcing one of his knights to actually die for the curse." John looks thoughtful, but Sherlock shakes his head at him.

"That's why we're taking precautions. Molly, if you could help me arrange this."

Molly clips a cannula to Sherlock's finger and a machine begins beeping his heart rate. She pulls a cap of sensors over his head and plugs the wires in. A screen flares with data as the EEG begins picking up Sherlock's brain activity.

"How does it look?" asks Sherlock. He is talking to Molly, but looking at John.

"Brilliant," says John. "You're brilliant."

John's head is too large for the cap, so his electrodes are attached with gel. The EEG is Sherlock's idea - technology to bolster belief for Molly and safeguard their lives.

Molly suits up in borrowed scrubs. Sherlock lies back as the drip is started. The drugs will keep him calm yet conscious. Molly swaps his chest, then bends to wipe John's. She picks up the scalpel from the tray - it's a silver one, a trophy for excellence in surgical training she's lifted from a surgeon's office. "Are you sure I won't need the saw?" She gestures with blue gloved hand. "I've got, you know. Spreaders and everything. For, for my work, they're very clean -"

"Molly." Sherlock's voice is slow, deep from the drug. He lifts a hand and she grabs it convulsively, the tremors running down her arm to his. "It's okay. You can do this, I know you can. It'll be all right, if anything goes wrong you can stop."

Molly inhales deeply, trying to control her breathing. She nods several times. "Okay. Okay. I'm - I've got this. I just don't want to hurt..."

"It won't hurt," John lies. It will. The price is pain, and pain is a lesson, after all. Let it be the last price he or Sherlock would pay. "Just do it fast. The magic will take care of the rest."

Her giggle is hysterical, but relieves the tension. "Oh God. I can't believe... I mean. Magic. But I believe you." She kneels, the plastic sheeting rustling.

John lies back. He turns his head. Sherlock has moved, is looking down at him. Dark blue eyes meet grey for a long moment. John reaches up and brushes his fingertips to Sherlock's down-stretched hand. His arm drops, and he looks at Molly. "All right. Just like we talked about. Believe it. You'll be fine." John is not fine. He is terrified, and glad he refused the heart-monitor. He doesn't want Sherlock to hear how the human heart within him is beating with the franticness of a trapped rabbit's.

Molly takes a breath and leans over John. "Buthal..." she begins, and stops. She shakes her head and begins again, voice determined. "Buthal..."

_Ended thy quest be, o Buthal the Red,_

_Twain of temperament have met, lives twined."_

The score of the silver scalpel cutting into skin and muscle is a white-hot poker of agony laid across his ribs but Buthal cannot move or breathe, caught in the sudden lassitude of the spell. Oh. _Oh,_ this is worse than the claustrophobia of being under the earth, this is utter helplessness. Buthal feels the heart he has carried so long jolt, then un-moor itself, rising, pushing between ribs in a twist of pain. Molly gasps as the organ crests in river of blood as though it were eager to return to its rightful owner. Buthal feels the tickle of warmth snaking down his ribs. Cool hands lift the heart away. Above, he can hear Molly's questioning tone, and Sherlock's reassurance, something about the EEG.

Dimly Buthal hears the crinkle of plastic as Molly stands. He hears Sherlock's low cry, bitten back, the long exhalation trailing to silence. The heart monitor goes flat, beeping its long tone. _Please. Please, o ye gods, let him live._ Molly is breathing in short pants. Her scrubs rustle as she moves. There is the clatter of the scalpel on the tray.

Silence. Molly whimpers.

Then Buthal hears a great inhalation, Sherlock coughing as the heart monitor goes wild. _Oh. Thank you._

Warm drops fall on Buthal's face as Molly leans over him. Her voice is shaky but strong.

_"Knowing, thy trust and truth be returned truly,_

_His heart for thine, thine for his, exchanged."_

"Is he all right? How is he? John!" he hears Sherlock calling. "_John!_"

There is a great heaviness on Buthal's chest, pressing. With a pop more felt than heard, the weight slips in, hot and burning, and for the first time in over fifteen hundred years, Buthal feels his true heart begin to beat in his chest. His back arches up, fingers spasmodic as he cries out. He falls back, wheezing.

"Buthal, o Buthal! Long live thee and thine!" Molly finishes, voice thick with tears.

"Long live thee and thine," echoes Sherlock. He has pulled his I/V and slipped off the examining table to kneel next to Molly. His chest is pale and smooth.

Buthal looks at his own chest. There is no scar, no visible sign he ever lost his heart. "It's... it's over."

"Yes. How do you feel?" asks Sherlock. He guides Buthal to a sitting position and puts an arm around his shoulders, his unbroken hand holding Buthal's painfully tight.

"Whole. Less empty, in my chest." Buthal considers. "Lighter."

Molly sniffles, pulls her mask down to wipe at her eyes and nose. "You look smaller. More like John. But still big."

Buthal shrugs. "I knew the curse. I never knew what came after."

Sherlock smiles. "I suppose after all this time, some change was inevitable. It's not always the smartest or strongest that survive, but those that are most adaptable. You wouldn't change your ways before you were cursed, now you fit in. Interesting thought. I wonder what will be effect of a giant having a heart that was used for so long by humans?"

Buthal glares in exasperation. "What's going to happen to a human with a heart carried in a giant for millennia?" Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow in speculation.

"Perhaps I'll grow to crave flesh like a cannibal. Hm." To Buthal's lack of surprise, Sherlock doesn't look dismayed at the thought.

"No," says Buthal firmly. "I don't fancy undoing another curse." Molly nods her whole-hearted agreement. He continues, "Besides, I don't feel hungry myself." It's true. The constant gnawing ache that has been his companion and torment these many years is gone.

"Oh, well, that's a relief," retorts Sherlock. "That means you can leave off eating my experiments. And to think that all this time I thought you'd just thrown those body parts away."

Molly's mouth drops open, and Buthal begins to laugh, bending forward and clutching his belly. Sherlock begins to chuckle, and Buthal laughs harder. The transition to tears and racking sobs is unexpected, yet as natural as life. Buthal clutches Sherlock and weeps, body shaking, as his heart-bearer holds him tight and Molly hugs him from behind.

* * *

The after-effect of the curse is a bit disappointing, depending on one's point of view. Some would say it was fitting. As John's life was saved,Sherlock counts it as a personal triumph, and John lets him.

The hunger does not return. John's hair return to its sandy blond, to Sherlock's dissatisfaction. John's body is larger than he was, but less grotesque in stature. When Lestrade asks about it upon his and Sherlock's return to work with the police, John passes it off as an unusual case of acromegaly, well under control, though he'd had to go abroad for a year for treatments.

"Very unusual case," says Sherlock. "One in a billion. Utterly unique." His tone is serious, but his eyes crinkle with affection as he looks at John, then Lestrade. Lestrade lifts a shoulder.

"I'm just glad to have you both back. Can't have one without the other, you know. It's just not natural."

"I completely concur," says Sherlock, and John smiles.

Both Sherlock and John have keener senses - hearing, eyesight. They are also stronger. Much stronger. They make this discovery during a case where they unexpectedly find themselves facing several large and knife-wielding gang members. Lestrade keeps shaking his head after the police arrive and ambulances arrive.

"Think of me. Think of my paperwork. What the hell did you do?" Lestrade glares. "Are you on something? Give over."

"Clean living," says John at the same time Sherlock says, "Bartitsu."

"Gesundheit," says Lestrade. "Bar what?"

John coughs and hides his smile as Sherlock explains how he and John have taken up martial arts. Lestrade lets it go, and they are more careful in the future.

They also heal faster, which is useful, but not a reason to go looking for trouble, as John explains to Sherlock after splinting yet another broken finger. Sherlock scoffs, but John picks up his unhurt hand and clasps it, fingers twining between Sherlock's. Their hands are the same size now.

"I want to hear you playing your violin for a long time to come," John says. "I love your music."

Sherlock gives in.

* * *

John is distant on some days.

He has not met any of his brethren again since Dóiteán. He is terribly afraid that the giant race is no more, absorbed by the curse back into the elements. With the waning of magic in Britain, he wonders if he is the last.

Sherlock argues one evening that there the odds of finding one again in the population at large is small, that they just haven't been fortunate yet. He says there is no way to tell that John's race is extinct, that they may be waiting under the earth for their hearts to be born again into a human.

The thought of his brethren still lying awake under the earth is not one John enjoys, and he suffers one of his worst nightmares after Sherlock tells him this. Sherlock wakes him, sits with his hands on John's shoulders and their foreheads touching, breathing with him. John rests his hand on Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock does not know how to say he is sorry. Instead, he asks, "Tell me a story. About them."

John swallows. He is quiet a while, then begins, the words halting at first, then smoothing as his tongue falls into the old speech patterns of a time long past.

"Once... once I had a sister. Her name was Réalta, which means 'star' in the old tongue. Shining and brilliant as a star was she, with hair black as night and glossy as a raven's wing. Strong and slim and straight was she, but think you not on this, but on how her laugh was as loud and long, bright as bells. Haughty looked she - much like you, Sherlock - yet I knew her as lively and loving and as full of jests as any child." John's hand slips up, fingers twining through Sherlock's hair. "Just as you are, my heart. One day, we happened upon our older brother, Seasmhach slumbering unsuspecting by a stream. This was in the time before the Romans came to Albion, bringing their customs of bathing with them, and Seasmhach stank like a dead steer in the sun, even flies flitting away..."

John smiles as he tells the tale of how he and his sister tossed their brother into the shallow stream and fled giggling like children as Seasmhach flailed, thinking he was drowning until he stood up, dripping and furious.

Sherlock listens.

* * *

"Sherlock! John!"

They both turn as Mike Stamford hails them. They are in front of Bart's, and Mike is smiling to see them. "You look wonderful, both of you. Like you haven't aged a day. I guess all that running about keeps you young, right?"

John shakes Mike's hand. "Mike, good to see you again." He looks down. "Who's this?"

A small boy of about four or five clutches Mike's hand tightly. He doesn't look up at them, dark head bent as he toes a crack in the pavement. Mike smiles at the boy's behaviour. "This is Jamie. "

"Jamie," repeats Sherlock. His gaze doesn't leave the child.

"Thought you weren't planning on kids, Mike," John jokes, but he is looking at the boy too.

Mike shrugs, embarrassed. "It was never a plan, the wife and I always always wanted them, but... you know how things go." John nods, and Mike goes on. "Amazing thing, really, we were up in the Lake District for a holiday, and we found him. Well, I found him - he was in the woods and crying. Naked and black as a coal miner from dirt. Who would do that to a kid?"

John can't speak. Sherlock speaks for him. "Nobody with a heart would ever do that to a child."

"Nobody seems to know who he belongs to, so we're taking care of him for the time being. Foster care, but we're hoping to adopt. Who would have thought it, a father at my time of life!" Mike laughs.

"I think you'll be brilliant at it, Mike," John manages. Mike beams.

"I'm just taking him along to the Children's Hospital now, get some tests and check-ups done. Jamie, won't you say hello? He's a bit shy of strangers, doesn't like to be parted from me, really."

Sherlock goes down on one knee on the pavement. "Jamie." The boy looks at him then. His dark eyes are huge in his thin face. They contain such a wealth of suffering, of untold age that Sherlock's breath catches. He tries for a smile. "My name is Sherlock, and this is my friend John. It's nice to meet you."

Jamie looks up at John, and an expression of hatred crosses his face almost too quickly to follow. He looks back at Sherlock, and the anger melts to sorrow. His lip trembles. He stretches a thin arm out, and pats Sherlock's chest. John stirs, but Sherlock doesn't move.

Jamie's mouth works. "Was nice to meet you, too. Sherlock." He drops his arm and looks up at Mike, tears shimmering in his eyes. "Da." He tugs Mike's sleeve. Mike sighs and bends. Jamie clambers into his arms. Sherlock straightens up, still watching Jamie.

"Well, after you see the doctor, I hope Mike takes you out for a nice treat. You're not hungry, are you, Jamie?" There is such a wealth of meaning in Sherlock's voice that Mike's brows draw together.

Jamie shoots John another spiteful look and speaks to him directly. "No. Not hungry." He buries his head against Mike's chest, pressing close.

"I hope -" John clears his throat. "I hope we'll see you again, Jamie. Mike."

It's not until Mike and his burden have turned the corner that John begins to shake. Sherlock grabs him, holds him up as his knees begin to give way. "John. John, it's all right."

"I know it's all right, Sherlock. I know." John's voice is half-choked. "It's him. He's back, so soon, that never happens. Do you know what that means? Do you _know_?" His voice rises.

"The curse continues, but in a diminished form. He died, but his heart was still alive, so he came back. Was able to come back. And now he's found his heart. Or rather, his heart found him." Sherlock's voice is fierce. "You did that for him, John. You made it so he wouldn't have to stay beneath and wait."

John's laugh is wild. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Sherlock's. "It wasn't me, it was you." There is a pause. "I don't know whether to be happy or scared for Mike."

Sherlock rubs the tips of his fingers against the back of John's head. "A little of both. I understand that comes with the territory, when one becomes a parent. But you know Mike. He has a good heart, for all that it apparently belongs to Moriarty. He'll change him for the better."

John sighs and pulls away. "We can keep an eye out."

"Yes. I think it'll work out. Jamie needs someone like Mike. He needs a father. When the time comes, when he's older, we'll talk about how to break the curse with him."

"Sherlock." John lifts pained eyes. "If he could come back, there may be others. Other kids. I - I -"

"We'll find them. Take care of them, take them in if needed." Sherlock rubs a hand up and down John's arm, grips his wrist. "More importantly, you are not the last. Your race isn't dead. You're not alone, John."

John rests his hand over Sherlock's heart, feels the warm bump of it against his palm. "I know. I wasn't, really, before." His lips twitch, but it's not quite a smile. "I had you."

"And my heart," Sherlock says. "Though not in a literal sense these days. Only metaphorically." He winks.

"Nice way to say you care," grumbles John. Sherlock grins and leans in to brush his cheek against John's, catching his lips in a brief kiss as he pulls away.

"Is that better?"

"You want me to rate it against my vast history of kisses?"

"Ah. I see I have high standards to aspire to. And overcome. Later?"

"I'll hold you to that."

Together they turn and walk into Bart's, shoulders brushing.

* * *

**The Cottage**

_This is gold._ The intruder is thrilled. The writing is absorbing, perverse. It reads like a fantasy, but with a level of detail that gives goosebumps.

Perhaps it is only one of Ian Moore's fairy tales for adults. Leaking Moore's newest story and his abnormal living arrangements will garner as much backlash as it does fame, and that kind of press is undesirable. No, but on the other hand, the subjects of this story, oh - that is just what the investigator needs. So many new leads on dirt to dig up. After all these years, a score will be settled.

An exposé - that will satisfy the craving. Never mind the photos, hard evidence is necessary. The intruder hastily gathers papers and notebooks, stacking them on the laptop.

There is the sound of a key grating in the lock at the front door. The intruder's head jerks up, heart pounding a frantic tempo. Time to go, time to_ run_. The desk lamp is flicked off. Scooping up the slithery bundle, the intruder spins towards the kitchen and pulls up short.

A broad figure blocks the passage, looming over the thief. "Look what we have here," says a voice with undertones of gravel and fury.

Panicked, the thief whirls, but all routes of escape are cut off. A dark figure stands silhouetted in the archway to the front door. "A guest? How nice. We rarely get visitors."

"We don't _want _visitors," says the other.

"Now, now, no need to be unwelcoming. Let's get a better look at our guest." The light switch is flicked, and the intruder blinks in the sudden glare.

"Well. As I live and breathe. I'd say it's good to see you again, but that'd make me a liar. And there's no way I'd debase myself to your level." Sherlock Holmes smiles a terrifying smile.

Behind her, John Watson spits the name like the vilest of curses. "Kitty Riley."

Kitty's gaze moves from one to the other, face slack with shock. The papers and notebooks slither from her grasp, fluttering to the floor and followed by the crack of the laptop hitting hardwood. Sherlock winces.

"You - you're -" Kitty cannot articulate.

"I think we're past introductions, aren't we? After all, I think I'd remember the woman who aided Moriarty." John is prowling around her, all leashed menace. "I wouldn't forget how you helped drive my heart to suicide, would I?"

"I didn't -"

"I appreciate the sentiment, John, but you know I planned -"

"You could have!" John shouts. "You nearly did, several times. After."

"What are you?" Kitty bursts out, voice shrill. "You, you - what the hell are you, you don't look any older! Why don't you look older? It's not natural!" She fists her hands, trying to control the tremors running through her body.

It is true. Seventeen years have passed, and left few marks on either John or Sherlock. Sherlock's hair is as dark, leavened by an occasional silver thread in the curls. John's face is the same slightly weathered texture , with a few more lines around the eyes. Otherwise they look the same as the last time Kitty had seen them in person.

John's smile is edged. "Must be the benefits of a life of virtue. What has your life been, Kitty?" He slides closer, bending over her. "Just look at you. How have you spent your life?"

"Get away from me!"

"John," Sherlock says, and John takes a few steps backwards but continues his restless prowl.

"What are you," Kitty repeats, but neither man answers.

"What are you doing here? In my house?" John's voice is heated.

"It's obvious. Lured here by rumours and talk of a famous author, found more than she'd ever hoped. And now she's collecting enough ammunition to finish us off," Sherlock says. He shakes his head. "Thought you would have learned your lesson by now."

"You ruined me," Kitty says, voice shaking.

Sherlock speaks over John's growl. "We never pursued you. We only let the truth speak for itself."

"That was more than enough," Kitty spits, anger sparking. "So magnanimous of you. The great detective, hero of the country. I couldn't work for ages, only sold stories to the worst tabloids."

"Peddling lies," John cuts in. "What a surprise."

"I had to change my name! You ruined me," she says, voice low, cheeks flushing red in fury. "Since I met you, my life's been destroyed. And if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure yours is ruined, too."

Sherlock is unmoved by this threat. He clasps his hand behind his back and looks down his nose at her. "Will you."

"I'll tell everyone! You're not natural, looking the way you do! And now I know why. I read your story."

"You think anyone is going to believe in giants?" John scoffs.

"More to the point, do you think anyone is going to believe you?" Sherlock adds. "The infamous Kitty Riley, journalistic pariah?"

Kitty's hands are flexing in claws. "Photos. I'll get pictures. DNA. Anything I can dig up. And then there's the kid - what the fuck? People will want to believe me, you'll see. It'll make headlines when a sociopath turns paedophile, you sick freaks. Child Services will take her away, and then -"

She shrieks as John turns on her with murder in his eyes. Sherlock grabs his arm with unnatural speed before he can reaching the cringing Kitty. "John, no!"

"Nobody is taking Dóchas, they'll have to go through _me_ first." John lets Sherlock pull him away.

"And myself as well," Sherlock says. He puts his hand on either side of John's face, forces him to look at him. "It's not going to happen. This is not the way."

John shudders but holds himself still, taking deep breaths. Sherlock presses a kiss on John's lips, his forehead and draws him close, but his pale eyes are no less murderous when they lock on Kitty over John's shoulder. "Go and check on Dóchas in the car. Ms. Riley and I are going to have a conversation." He turns his head and whispers something inaudible in John's ear. John nods and turns to go, but not before he grins at Kitty with a smile Sherlock hasn't seen since a memorable night in West Carey cottage.

Sherlock is glad that smile has never been directed at him.

The front door clicks. "Sit down," Sherlock says.

"I think I'd rather stand," Kitty replies. She finds herself suddenly slammed into the desk chair with bruising force before she even saw the movement, hands digging into her shoulders.

"I don't like to repeat myself," Sherlock says. His face is right above hers.

He doesn't even look angry, one part of Kitty's mind babbles over the terror.

"I am willing..." Sherlock pauses to choose the words. "Not to forgive, no. To overlook that you were doubtless Moriarty's dupe, and inadvertently responsible for my disgrace and the pain it caused John. I am willing to pass over the fact that you came here - to our home - with the intent to pry into our privates lives."

Kitty's eyes are wide, her lips bloodless. Sherlock swallows. His hands slip to the arms of the chair, boxing her in. "What I am not going to overlook are your threats, as wild and as ill-advised as they are. Against myself, against John, and most especially against Dóchas. A child. A little girl who is as much to me as my own heart. How _dare _you."

His hands flex on the arms of the chair, the plastic groaning under his grip. Kitty makes a wordless noise in the back of her throat. Eyes boring into hers, Sherlock continues. "No one will believe you. You are fighting forces that you will never understand, and will never overcome. I have the means. I have contacts. More importantly, I have John."

Sherlock releases the chair and steps back in a quick movement. There is an edge of pity in the smile he gives her. "I have a lifetime's study of criminology at my beck and call. I've been called a psychopath more than once. You want to tell the world? It may be that you never get the chance. Just cross me, and find out how much of a monster I can be."

Kitty finds her voice. "You wouldn't. You can't."

Sherlock shrugs. "Well, perhaps not. It would upset John." He looks over his shoulder where the person in question is entering the room. "All right?"

"She's just woken up. Cranky. I left her looking for her shoes in the car. Didn't want her meeting our visitor." John's eyes are on Kitty, hatred and a strange eagerness banked in his eyes.

"Good." Sherlock addresses Kitty again. "You think all my threats empty? One more opportunity before I turn the matter over to John. This is your ultimatum: leave. Never come back. Never speak of this to anyone."

"You can't stop me talking," Kitty says.

John steps forward, teeth bared. "Right. That's _it_. I'm going to give you three minutes to leg it as far as you can." Kitty opens her mouth but John overrides her. "Once those three minutes are up, I'm coming after you." His hands flex. "And then I'm going to rip you apart."

"I hope you've kept in shape," Sherlock says. "John's in excellent shape for a man of his age, as I'm sure you've noted. John, if you need my help with the body..."

"Oh, there won't be much left. No worries."

Kitty's eyes flick from Sherlock to John as he advances with a predatory grace that is strange and terrifying in a man his size. Her muscles tighten, heart rate ratcheting up. He stops short of her, and his expression is terrible to behold.

"Now." John's expression twists. "Get. OUT."

The echo of the inhuman shout is still ringing in Kitty's ears as she overturns the chair in her desire to get away. There are several thuds and the tinkle of broken glass from the kitchen as she blunders out. John and Sherlock follow, steps slow, to stand in the open back door, watching the fleeing figure.

"That was a cruel joke, for you," Sherlock says.

"Who says it's a joke?" John dead-pans. Sherlock eyes him severely, and John rolls his eyes. "Think we'll get any more trouble from her?"

"No," Sherlock says. "I'll make certain."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing. Oh," Sherlock says, as a small body clutching a soft toy badger inserts itself between them. "Sweetling. Ready for bed?"

Dóchas yawns, and turns a melting look on him. "Can me and Mr. Heckle the Second have some ice cream first?"

"No, you little monster, and don't you look at your brother, either. I know he's a soft touch. It's past your bed time."

She shrugs, and her small hand steals into his large one. "Okay."

"Let's get you tucked up, then," John says, smoothing a dark lock into place. "I have a new story for you."

"I know all your stories, big brother," she complains. "I want to hear one of _Sherlock's_."

Sherlock's chuckle rises, joined by Dóchas's giggle, as John sputters. The light from the hallway silhouettes the three as they stand in the door.

The shadows they cast seem to be long, very long, reaching beyond the spill of light to touch the darkness, until John shuts the door with a click.

**~The End~**

* * *

**Author's notes**: In which I waffle about why I wrote what I wrote. Which is - I have no idea really, it all drew together slowly.

I must confess, I loathed the prompt for the ficathon I got - Giants! Giants are stupid, and always die in stories, and are pitiful!Such went my thoughts.

I got thinking, after a massive ten day sulk, about survivors, and their guilt, and monsters under the skin passing for human, and the dwindling of magic in England, and I thought I'd want to read it if it were from the 'victim's' point of view. Because giants were not very nice, it's true, but King Arthur killed most of them off, and I got to feeling the victims were not humans at all. but giants.

And the quote, "So this too shall come to pass' came to mind, and that is from a person who is cast out and alone, an old Middle English poem. It's a lament, and I actually started the concept of Buthal with his Lament, done int rh Anglo Saxon style with alliteration (and that was not easy, let me tell you.

The fun started when I decided that I was tired of Sherlock being the 'monster', always the special one. There are many similarities in John and Sherlock's lives, and there is a certain darkness that is overlooked in many stories. At your peril do you underestimate John Watson. The trick, which was not too hard in the end, was making quite, quite sure that Buthal's thoughts did not specifically refer to anything John-ish or Sherlock-ish, and if it led people to think it was Sherlock, because of the way he holds himself apart like an alien, it could only work for of their lives run parallel - a sibling who is different, work that has bodies and violence, possible the same strange drive and feeling of being lost that drove Sherlock to drugs and John to seek chaos. Both are strange men, both are lonely.

The second trick was just managing their shared scenes to be ambiguous as well. About the only clues I left, if you go back and look are, for example, Sherlock never refers to Moriarty by his giant name at all, nor does Moriarty do the same to him. (Moriarty was definitely unbalanced in my story - I see the new child Moriarty as a kind of mild baby Dexter type, possibly.) Also, John is the one that has the worst reactions to Moriarty's gifts. Things like that.

So, hope you enjoyed, it ended up ridiculously long for a ficathon fic, I think. I may or may not post appendices here, which would consist of the full text of Buthal's Lament, and the full 'Malory' style story of Buthal the Terrible. Nothing to do with the plot, just I was really happy with the poem, because alliteration is trickier than you think.

Huge thanks go to my ever-patient beta readers, first red_adam for the nearly last second Brit picking. And especially to my talented and imaginative Alpha-Beta alltoseek, who got me into the challenge, and then when the story grew quite giant in size, assisted like a champion in the birth.

yrs, Jessamy


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